


Borne in Blood

by Calesvol



Series: WIPs [2]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lovecraftian, Lovecraftian Monster(s), Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Tragedy, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-02-27 12:24:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18738970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calesvol/pseuds/Calesvol
Summary: We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood...Fear the Old Blood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for the timeline reference goes to [Shadowfangs99](https://www.reddit.com/r/bloodborne/comments/6uc3k2/bloodborne_timeline_events_of_the_entire/), although I view the time span as being only 2-3 decades instead of what's presented here. I also majorly refer to DMC Redgrave's [Paleblood Hunt](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JL5acskAT_2t062HILImBkV8eXAwaqOj611mSjK-vZ8/edit) as a major source of lore and other interpretations. Lastly, Alex Roe's [Borne in Blood](https://alexroe.bandcamp.com/album/borne-in-blood) is also a major source of inspiration, the title coming from this particular fanwork.
> 
> This fic takes place approximately 30 years before the events of the game.

Warning(s): T, none

* * *

“Do you think we’ll be able to do it, Caryll?” the younger, albino woman queried aloud, Caryll’s dark brown eyes flitting to her. “Do you think Provost Willem is really right and that we’ll speak to the Great Ones just as you and I are now?”

Three years it’s been. Three years since Caryll had been personally selected by scouts traversing the Fishing Hamlet, her stout father, Norbert, having folded his arms across his barrel chest while her thin wisp of a mother, Keziah, had delicately told Caryll to remain inside while her father handled it. And it wasn’t without reason; for years, Caryll had been transcribing sounds she’d heard in the ocean on whatever surface she could find. Gradually, it was discovered these scrawlings imbued one with mysterious power, even if Caryll herself hadn’t understood it, believing it only to be a whale’s keening that resonated within the harbor she’d often enjoyed swimming in while the fishermen of the village troweled and ferried themselves with their nets out to sea. 

Though the townsfolk considered her a saint, someone to be worshiped and revered, she’d thought the whole thing so very silly. It wasn’t until a man with a strangely latticed headdress had informed Norbert of the gravity of what she was, and knowing what little opportunity a mere fishing hamlet had for a girl, some agreement had been struck. That had been three years ago, as she was eighteen now. Promised an education and that all that they did would someday advance humanity in miraculous ways. 

Because everyone wanted a legacy. Everyone wanted to be remembered. 

Caryll blew a tuft of coily black hair from her eyes, shrugging nonchalantly. “Dunno, really. Guess it’d be real nice to hear somethin’ back, or maybe we’re jus’ better off knowin’ nothin’ at all.” Or would it? 

She and Rom were perched on a tippy balustrade that straddled the shores of the Moonside Lake at the Lunarium, the near-black waters scintillating like the waters of some abyssal pool meant only to reflect the moon back at them. Cleaving some long road into the darkness of the forest-silhouetted treeline far from where they were. The young black woman sighed wistfully, feeling some distant want to walk upon it. It was one of the few places she and her best friend felt at peace with the world, outside of all the grueling classes and work they were subjected to. Not that she minded, really. 

“Mm, you’re right. I know we’re supposed to be doing our best to learn what we can to advance humanity, but it’s okay to be a little selfish, isn’t it?” Bright, deep russet eyes trained upon Caryll. “To just want to be able to learn. If I wasn’t here, I’m pretty sure I’d just have been some scullery maid by now.

“Guess you’re right. If I didn’t have my own little celebrity, guess I’d be joinin’ ya. As some nurse or fisherwoman or working behind the some gruff, boxy man who’d make me fillet and skin ‘em fish all damn day an’ night.” Rom couldn’t help but laugh at that, a bell-like sound over the lull of water lapping against the stonework of the balcony suspended over calm waters. “Y’think Gehrman will catch us? Either we’ve been lucky, or he jus’ doesn’t care all that much about a couple’a students jus’ enjoyin’ the moon.”

“Well,” Rom considered while swinging her legs idly, the picture of girlish innocence, “we’re not misbehaving in any way. Even if we are up after curfew, isn’t one of the ways man advances is by sitting outside with a friend and pondering the universe? So, technically, we’re not deviating from the rules and precedents set by Byrgenwerth in the least. We’re just...following them a little differently.” Moving her long, white braid over her shoulder did Rom idly play with the tassel, smiling puckishly. Although, it was the sort of smile only a best friend could identify as such. 

Caryll gave her friend a long, amused look before a partial grin cracked through. “Yeah, couple’a sods sittin’ on their arses getting sloshed an’ talkin’ about some broad’s tits before they start gettin’ real deep, right? ‘Least, that’s what most of these gaffers ‘round here do when us ladyfolk ain’t here to listen in on ‘em.” 

“You mean like yours?” Rom quipped brightly, grinning cheekily. This caused Caryll to fluster as she self-consciously tugged her outer cape over her bosom. Which...alright, it wasn’t exactly small, but not something she liked making a focal point of! 

“Rom! Oh, bugger off, will ya?” Caryll protested with a blush lost on her coppery complexion. At Caryll’s expense did Rom burst into a fit of giggling, the older girl unable to keep her silence for long before she, too, succumbed to the impromptu laughter that burgeoned gaily between them. 

However, it was a light Caryll swore she saw in her periphery that made her start, Rom sobering immediately at the lack of sound. Like some orb bobbing like a dragonfly in summer, her chestnut gaze narrowed at the sight of it. Lowly did she hush Rom to quiet who nodded docilely, glad her friend understood. Pantomiming a gesture of silence, carefully did both girls deposit themselves on the ground and creep towards the exit of the Lunarium that led to the third floor proper of the college, stalking towards the exit.

It was when Caryll finally burst through that whoever had been skulking inside had a bit of a nasty shock. The figure lurched back into his lanky, unusually taller counterpart and the runesmith admittedly had to stifle a giggle at their expense. “Laurence, Mico, the devil are you two doin’ up so late creepin’ around like this? You tryin’ to get Gehrman or Dores on ya tail or somethin’?” 

The man she’d addressed first blinked owlishly and dusted off his shoulders while Micolash appeared like his usual shy, quiet self. Laurence was slightly shorter, a broad-shouldered young man roughly three years older than she was, the oldest of their little troupe. With dirty blond hair and smoky blue eyes all framed in a rather handsome face, she had to admit it was amusing seeing someone normally so reserved and composed be startled the way he had. He gasped loudly, a footfall creeping. 

He also was one of her closest friends after Rom herself, Micolash being someone she considered a friend as well—even if he was odd and sometimes downright morbid a character. “Was that really necessary, Caryll?” Laurence sighed, even if his gaze was both tired and kind. This night, it was like he covetously held on to a secret. “After all, you and Rom are up. Mico and I aren’t the ones to shame here.” 

“No, but all Rom an’ I were doin’ was enjoyin’ the view from the Lunarium. While you two were skulkin’ about like a pair’a thieves,” Caryll replied pointedly. “Seriously, ya can tell us whatever you’ve got planned. ‘s not like you to keep secrets an’ all. ‘specially since we’re really close ourselves.” 

With a furtive look over his shoulder did Laurence reach into the lapel pocket of his uniform and produce a vial of an opaque scarlet substance, Rom knowing exactly what it was. “That’s the blood we found in the Chalice Dungeons. Laurence, what are you doing with it? Does Provost Willem know?” 

The blond sighed, grimacing somewhat. “He doesn’t.” Lifting his gaze did the man wear a face of grim determination, a sort none of them had seen before. “Caryll, Rom—how can we stand idly by, advancing humanity while showing nothing for it? This blood, it can heal people, _things_. It can do real good instead of being locked away for selfish reasons. ...It’s why we’re going to take it to Cainhurst Castle, to Queen Annalise.” 

While Rom’s pale brows shot up for a moment, Caryll didn’t look surprised. Not really. Maybe there was for a moment, but it was so brief she wasn’t even sure herself she’d felt it. “Alrigh’, but don’t ya need some appointment or other to even see ‘er?” Seeing as the queen was often chronically ill and bed-bound, it seemed a dubious endeavor.

“Already did. The Queen is expecting us as we speak,” Micolash rasped with his thin, strange smile. He’d always been a strange one. Even a little creepy, but never dangerous or the like.

“Laurence?” Caryll queried aloud, folding her arms thoughtfully as the older boy switched his gaze towards her, receptive. “I get why you’re doin’ this, but—there’s a real reason why it hasn’t been distributed to the rest’a Yharnam. We haven’t tested it totally yet. Could be dangerous, for all we know. Could result in th’ queen gettin’ some nasty side-effects.” 

“That’s what Master Willem hides behind. We’ve been exploring and tested these past few years, Caryll. Every medicinal ever conceived has its consequences, both good and bad. How is this any different? Can we really sit idly by while Yharnam sleeps on what could change it for the better? We’re supposed to be the forefront of advancing mankind. Hoarding the secrets we discover will do no such thing.” 

Though Caryll looked genuinely pensive, Laurence was right. Gods, it was in times like these that she remembered those **feelings** swelling in her breast, all warm and soupy with tenderness. Feelings for this foolishly altruistic man who saw brightness in the future. Saw it and wanted to run headlong into it, no matter what might trip him up along the way. 

Inhaling softly, she nodded. “Righ’, but you two can be bloody sure y’ain’t goin’ alone. Rom an’ I are comin’ with ya. T’make sure ya don’t blunder too badly in front a queen of all people,” Caryll teased as she ribbed Laurence gently, a smile flitting to the blond’s features.

“Well, I suppose it’s never a bad time for an adventure,” Rom said with a smile of her own. “Shall we get going, then?”

* * *

Taming her mane of black hair into as manageable a ponytail as she could, with the four of them in their uniforms and sneaking down to the stables before Dores could catch them made Caryll feel a bit more excited than she’d anticipated. The ride through Hemwick Charnel Lane carried the quartet along at a jouncy canter, even if the old nag Micolash preferred riding needed several stops to catch its breath before continuing along. 

A shiver of anticipation raced her spine as they rode through the dark, broody forest and the faint smears of moonlight that filtered through the thick umbrage, the occasional baying of some hound or the forlorn chirping of crickets causing her to jolt. Caryll’s gaze drifted towards Laurence who led the pack, Rom and Micolash bringing up the rear. Even through he rode with surety, even she could read the tensity in his shoulders plainly. No one spoke for fear of being caught, even though the average Yharnamite knew nothing of the affairs of Byrgenwerth, meaning they’d be mistaken as well-dressed interlopers at best. She only hoped they might be so lucky. 

After riding for what felt like an eternity, the crunching of underbrush and twigs yielded to their steeds clopping noisily on flagstone upon a bridge that spanned long with gaslight lanterns lighting the way at intervals. By the looks of it, they were likely lit by whale oil which was but one of the first indicators of wealth they’d likely be encountering on the journey there. 

Before long, the moon-touched facade of the castle loomed mightily over them like a mountain, Gothic architecture underscored by light burning like stars from within. Caryll had this sinking feeling as if they were headed towards some beast that would yawn its great maw open and consume them in one gulp, but she tried not to let it affect her. Cold spires and gaping enormity seemed to only conclude by the time they reached the front gates, a hook-nosed, wiry butler and a small detail of tiredly blinking young men she assumed were stable hands greeted them, keeping silent while Laurence spoke. 

“You are the young scholar, Laurence, correct?” Peering over Laurence as the band dismounted and passed on the reins to the stable boys, the blond addressed nodded pensively. It wasn’t every day they spoke to the Queen or her kinsmen, after all. “And our esteemed guests,” the butler added at the sight of the rest of them, expressed unamused. She supposed she couldn’t blame him; it had to be past midnight, well past the reasonable hour for the queen or her staff to be awake. “Please, this way.”

Rom and Caryll walked in stride of one another while silently marveling at the enormity of the reception chamber. Two diverging, spiraling stairs and the several doors led into separate wings, icy moonlight glossing much of the room with a cold pallor inspiring the sensation of winter, Caryll staving away a shiver. Torchlight cast their shadows even longer, stretching like shady fingers at their backs that reminded her of phantoms. 

The butler led them down a few other richly ornamented corridors brisk with chill that seemed odd to her, given how warm Yharnam was this time of year, but continued on in silence. At long last, they came into the throne room itself where a lone woman sat the throne in a sparse nightgown, likely only having awoken recently. Though beautiful, Annalise’s features were hauntingly severe and her tawny auburn hair hung limp from the loose bun it’d been piled into. She looked sickly, complexion ashen even in the radiant moon glow that flooded the throne room.

“Your Majesty, Laurence of Byrgenwerth College has arrived, along with his schoolfellows.” The butler gazed at them expectantly, the quartet gawking before Laurence was the first to sweep into a pious genuflection, the others following suit clumsily. 

“Your Majesty, I am Laurence, and these are my friends and schoolfellows, Rom,” the albino smiled nervously, “Micolash,” the man in question averting his gaze shyly, “and Caryll, our runesmith. I think I mentioned her especially in the letter I wrote.” 

Caryll couldn’t help but glance in surprise at Laurence, a blush creeping on her features. Part of her wanted to ask why before the queen herself addressed her, causing Caryll to startle. “Prithee, my dear girl, art thy claims true? Doth thou’st truly hear the voices of the gods themselves?” Annalise queried in true wonder, voice carrying sparsely but audibly. 

The butler nodded sharply at them, indication that they could stand. They did so, but not before Caryll found her voice to speak. “I— Yes, your Majesty. I can’t understand ‘em, but I—I can transcribe that I ‘ear on runes. They have special properties, an’ all that.” Gulping, she was unsure at what else to say, but Laurence’s secretive smile made her heart flutter giddily through the trepidation. 

“Thou hast a most bless’d gift, child. Long ago, our Pthumerian ancestors of Pthumeru Ihyll wert custodians of the Great Ones. Though lost to time, they wert believe’d to possesseth such gifts. Mayhap we are of blood, dear girl. When thy scholarship is complete, thou ought consider vocation within these walls. Thou would’st be regarded as most revered blood kin, and thy place secured in the world. Dwell on it, verily,” the queen continued pleasantly, Caryll seeming utterly awestruck.

“I’ll think on it, Majesty. Honest, I will!” 

Annalise smiled thinly again, gesturing towards Laurence. “Come hither, child. Present thine intentions, and thy deliverance. If thou speak’st true thou wilt be highly rewarded.” Without needing another beckon, Laurence stepped towards the dais and a handmaiden as pale as herself took the vial from him, genuflecting before the queen and presenting it. 

Laurence took his place next to Caryll with his hands clasped before him, eyes stark and trained upon the queen as she delicately took the vial, utterly frail. Popping the cork was like someone had fired a musket, all watching with absurd anticipation as the queen considered it before drinking the contents in one gulp. Swallowing audibly, she coughed lightly before doubling over, collapsing to the floor as the handmaid cried out and caught her. A sympathetic sweat touched her brow as Laurence was similarly rigid, Caryll certain he’d stopped breathing. 

Yet, girlish peals of laughter emanated from Annalise as she suddenly sprang up and skipped over the dais and towards Laurence, taking the confused man by the hands and beginning to waltz dramatically around them, whirling while Micolash took Rom by her shoulders to guide her from the duo’s strange path. Hell, Caryll had no time to feel even a pang of envy at the display, especially when they saw glimpses of Annalise’s giddiness. 

“Thou hast work’d miracles!” the woman crowed as she released Laurence and twirled again. “Years I hath been sickly, frail to walking and naught but an ailing thing! Yarily, here my strength hath return’d! ‘Tis a miracle thou hast worked, a miracle! Nay, a godsend! Mine ancestors smile upon thy good deeds, Sir Laurence!” Giddy as a girl in the peak of girlhood, the rest of them seemed bemused but congratulatory.

Something seemed...off, however. Caryll could hear it, emanating from the queen. Beginning as nothing more than a buzzing, a vibrato that ricocheted the confines of the throne room before it grew to something deafening. Such a revelation was revealed by Caryll’s legs buckling beneath her as she clutched her skull with a wildness, caterwauling as she became prone upon the ground whilst Laurence and Rom rushed over her, shouting placation and concern despite all noise and vision whiting out completely. 

Micolash dashed from view, likely to beseech some help, but all Caryll could do in such blindness was take a forefinger to her lips and bite down viciously enough to draw blood. Practically gnawing off the tip of her finger, a sole image bored into her mind as she numbly and deliberately drew what she saw in her mind’s eye with agonizing slowness. Pain from every segment of her psyche razed her very being, but it wasn’t until she finished that a loud crack echoed and startled everyone present, including the court physician whom Micolash had managed to flag down. 

In morbid fascination did they look on as the flagstone that Caryll had marked in her own blood crumbled where the blood touched, embed a paler shade that took a perfect outline of the strange design that had been made. In the yawning silence, all who gazed upon it did so with wonder and wry covetousness. 

“Caryll,” Laurence murmured tenderly as he delicately unfurled the runesmith from her prone position, gently maneuvering her into his arms as he manfully scooped her up and hefted her bridal style. Caryll felt a sense of weightlessness as she was lifted, succumbing to her own weakness and allowing herself as much. Rom hovered near, concern profound upon her pale features.

“The physician—have him see to the girl, and swiftly!” Annalise murmured in an intense low as she obsessively crowded about the symbol, eyes slight with zealous interest. “Summon the craftsman and a trope of those whom’st might remove this slab. Do so, swiftly!” She giggled in manic covetousness, Rom and Micolash exchanging glances but saying nothing. 

Caryll felt weightless in Laurence’s arms, vision blurring in and out of focus. Always these things were so complicated, bridging ties between reality and the Dreamlands her consciousness was called when these runes came to fruition. Most of all, there was nothing more blissful than being in the arms of the man dearest to her, who had been so kind since the very beginning. Her face turned into his chest, the thumping of his heart steady and sure.

Before she slipped into blissful unconsciousness, she swore she heard Laurence utter her name before descending among a feathery and soft place.


	2. Chapter 2

Warning(s): M, gore, death, mutilation

* * *

What had happened that night would remain their guilty secret. It was difficult at first, keeping their lips metaphorically sewn shut and feigning ignorance whenever the Provost would distantly mention that little bit of blood going missing, or some wayward underclassman from the Lecture Hall would gossip about how Cainhurst had become withdrawn after discovering some covetous healing secret, and they’d know. But, maybe ignorance was their wall, their shield. After all, who would dare think that the quartet of scholars hand-picked by Willem himself would instigate such a thing? And if Willem knew, he didn’t say. Whether that should be a relief or some grim portent of consequences to come, they wouldn’t say.

And no one dared to speak of it, even among themselves in their innermost minds. As if even thinking it would somehow open that floodgate and they’d all drown.

It was late when Caryll should’ve been asleep, studying her own runes with blinkered glasses preventing her from doing aught but grazing her digits over the gnarled textures of the runes, studying her own creations from all angles. Lucky her, merely gazing upon them wouldn’t warp her mind the same way seeing the Great Ones themselves did. With the Rune tool nearby, there sometimes existed the temptation to, but she resisted it all the same.

The flame in the oil lamp she studied under flickered, since taking those glasses off, and she swore it was almost alive. Sandwiched between mounds of books that had more of a place at her desk and in unruly stacks than the heavily burdened shelves that lined her small room, it was a wonder something hadn’t caught afire. Yet, it was an audible creak at the threshold of her door that Caryll almost started at the familiar albeit wraith-like face.

“Bloody ‘ell, Maria! Ya keep goin’ around an’ givin’ poor sods the fright an’ I swear someone’ll die of a soddin’ heart attack— Maria?” Caryll balked amid her initial fright when she saw the huntress’ face, stricken and haunted. Blanched more if that were even possible in that ashy white complexion of hers.

“Do you tire still? There is… Something has happened, Caryll. At the Fishing Hamlet,” Maria explained slowly, Cainhurst bearing holding true even in this. Caryll’s brows knit together in disbelief. “Words cannot begin to describe it.”

“I hear ya. ...My mother? Father?” Caryll broached tepidly, feeling her blood slowly curdle in her veins. That inexorable feeling of fear that made her cold and like stone. As though she were becoming a statue in the very place she stood.

Maria only looked down, indeterminate. “We do not yet know the extent of the havoc caused. Yet, we must investigate it all the same.” Maria was a good, faithful woman. Caryll felt as much kinship with her as she did Gehrman, even though the man did behave oddly towards Maria at times. The three of them almost had a splinter group of their own, what with her runes being used to ample effect by the pair of hunters.

“Guess ya want me to go with ya then? Gehrman? Is he comin’, too?” She had to keep calm. If she lost her cool now, who knew what might ensue? A passing thought lingered guiltily on the incident at Cainhurst Castle, but she willed herself not to dwell on it lest she lose her composure. She couldn’t. Master Willem had chosen her and the others with good reason, and she wouldn’t let his good faith be squandered in the face of the unknown when the four of them had vowed to stand before the most harrowing of trials. Advancing humanity couldn’t come easily, and this was the unknown. Even if a personal tragedy might befall it, as well.

“...Let’s get goin’, then. Reckon this can’t wait until sun up or some rubbish like that,” Caryll acceded quietly, then wasting no time as Maria left to confirm with Gehrman and leaving Caryll to prepare herself as needed. By the passage of a few minutes, she came to the stables in riding breeches, a working blouse and vest, and a riding cloak upon her shoulders as Maria herself possessed.

The trio mounted their steeds and rode off into the night of the Forbidden Forest.

The nightmarish blaze of moonlight bled through the blotted cloud cover, some barren trees caging them, but there was no time to regard such trifles when the brine of the sea passed over them and the forest bowed onto a plunging, jagged cliff side the roaring, gray sea heaved mightily against with foamy spray leaping to greet them.

“I remember this path,” Caryll breathed aloud, remembering everything. Gehrman regarded her grimly, exchanging looks with Maria while the Runesmith wheeled her mount down the craggy seaside path that was seldom used, but had the least exposure to this new plague. The horses whickered uneasily as they picked their ways down gingerly, all allowing plenty of rein while practically bowed, noses flaring near the earth. It wasn’t so treacherous that they’d slip and fall, but the early morn left little to be desired.

“Caryll, how much of this place could you remember? Would you be able to guide us?” Gehrman’s voice rose gravely over the dashing waves, having to project his voice louder than normal. The middle-aged hunter had the severe Burial Blade folded across his back, sharply glancing dazzling moonlight off its wicked scythe. Caryll averted her eyes and nodded.

“M’da’s Norbert, ya might’ve ‘eard of him. Maybe he knows what the bloody ‘ell is goin’ on around ‘ere.” Caryll clucked her steed to continue down the ridge, the gray’s misty breath pluming white in the chilly early morning air.

The descent was as treacherous as it promised to be, but when they came to a particular rise, Caryll bid them to stop and their gazes followed hers. There, along the bare strip of pearly shoreline choked with seaweed, an enormous creamy and fleshy morass lay prone and ebbing with the rising tide. Long, pale appendages splayed from its bulging hulk to disappear into the waves. From even the height they were, the stench of decay and stale bilge water hit them and caused the horses to pin their ears back and whinny nervously. More than dead, there was something deadly there.

“Kos,” Caryll breathed haplessly, knowing who it was. “When I was a girl, I used t’ hear ‘er in the ocean. Never saw ‘er, ‘cause we all know why, but…it’s her, I’m sure of it. Ya think they might be connected?” Caryll steered her mount away and continued to lead them.

“The Hamlet dwellers, before this affliction, were said to have slain Kos. Her death is why we believe there is suffering,” Maria explained grimly, at Caryll’s flank. “You shall see when we arrive there, if the reports are to be believed.”

Before they continued, wordlessly did Gehrman and Maria raise high-necked coverings over the lower portions of their faces, Caryll doing the same. By the time they came to the outermost perimeter of the Hamlet did they tether their horses’ reins to a low-hanging tree branch that was sturdy enough to suit their purposes. Their boots were thankfully outfitted for this venture, not yet waterlogged even as the bounties and detritus of the sea alike swirled in their steps. As of yet, they were the loudest sounds at the borders of the Hamlet.

It was odd, Caryll thought. In her girlhood, this place had been aplomb with life, with merchants either bringing their wares to the local markets or prepping to bring them to Yharnam proper, alive with people living their lives, of schoolchildren heard from the makeshift schoolhouse at the center of town, and streets rife with whalers set to sail for a week or two at a time. Of fishers raring to sail out to sea for the day, and village women cracking open oysters and clams, of filleting fish, and otherwise gossiping with the other fishwives as they sat in communal little circles doing whatever was charged of them.

But this? It was silent as the grave, and that very fact sent indescribable chills down her spine.

“Maria, it’s time.” _Time?_ Caryll turned slowly to the sight of Maria unsheathing Rakuyo and Gehrman his Burial Blade, both with despairing expressions with the sight of deep and terrible purpose.

“Gehrman, Maria? Th’ hell are ya doin’?” Caryll mustered as they proceeded several strides ahead of her, heedless. Her voice sounded small, even for her. They stopped, as though shaken from whatever terrible rapture had engulfed them.

“Go on ahead, Caryll. Save whoever you can. But those who have been lost… We can’t risk this spreading to the city. I’m sorry, but this is how it must be.” There was a note of grisly finality as the ring of metal as the true, scythe-like appearance of the Burial Blade, one of the first trick weapons, was invoked and engaged. Maria, beside him, couldn’t even bring herself to look at Caryll.

And neither could the Runesmith do the reciprocal.

Without looking back did Caryll sprint into the village where the water-lined lanes dribbled with thick, encrusting barnacles and the blanched facades of buildings long buffeted by the sea caused her to dash towards her house first and foremost, knowing she was all that stood between her compatriots and this beloved little hamlet that had been her hometown.

“ _Da?_ Ma!” came Caryll’s frenzied supplications as she practically crashed through the entrance to what had been their little hovel and found them, Kesia and Norbert, shivering in a corner with little remnants of whatever had been pickled in their cellar strewn about them. A picture of desperation before the sight of their daughter filled their eyes.

“Caryll!” Norbert replied, heavy gray brow titled upwards before he and his little wife lunged forth to embrace their daughter in unison. Norbert was a heavy, stout man with a complexion exactly like her own and rather rich garb from being the village’s spiritual medium. A trusted man who she thanked the stars was still alive.

Meanwhile, Kesia’s filmy cowl fell over her face as damp as her moppy black ringlets and on her gaunt, ashy copper features. As a nurse of sorts, she couldn’t afford nicer vestments those in the city proper boasted. Half fishwife, half healer, but every bit as quaking and afraid as her petite form would allow. “You’re safe? Please tell me the school is still intact! That Queen Annalise is sending help to deliver us!”

Caryll swallowed thickly, throat closing from the truth she couldn’t bear to say. “Yeh, yeh, tha’s exactly what’s goin’ on, ma. Thing is, ya gotta come with or else you’ll be sunk along’a with the rest of th’ town, y’hear me?” Her chest ached with the weight of the lie, but the idea of losing her parents when she could save them hurt more. “D’ya still have yer mounts? ‘Cause ya need to ride ‘em far as ya can, y’hear me?”

“Wha’ ‘bout you?” Norbert demanded as he clutched his daughter’s arm, his bushy brows knit with worry. “Ya can’t mean t’ jus’ go back out there!”

The Runesmith smiled tightly at her father. “If I don’t, this wretch, what’s befallen the village… People’ll die in th’ name of quarantine. I’s happenin’ right now, da. I swear on m’heart, I love this village t’ pieces. I can’t just escape an’ live knowin’ there’s people I coulda saved!”

Though it was hard, after a long moment, and with some difficulty given Kesia’s withered frame and failing constitution, she was able tohelp her parents mount their large draft horse that was as anxious to escape as they were. Saying their last farewell did Norbert dig his heels into the beast’s flanks and spur it into a long-strided lope, watching them escape one of the few routes out of the hamlet and into Yharnam proper. Caryll watched their retreating backs with heaviness in her heart, but at least she might rest easy knowing that her parents were able to escape the carnage that was coming.

From her childhood home did she run with abandon through the streets but stopped short at the fish market, aghast at what she saw. A Fishwitch conjuring foul entities trained them upon Gehrman who was unusually fast, even with a peg leg that many would see as a detriment. Despite it, at the last minute when those foul creations seemed but a stride from it did his Quickening technique cause him to bolt forth like a wraith and sunder his foe with a timed arc of his Burial blade, the scythe cutting clean through the pale, sickly flesh of the female and sundering her.

Caryll emerged from behind him, knowing it had to be done. Wishing she could hate them both for what they had to do. “Gehrman,” she addressed solely when it was finally dead, clutching her riding cloak closed, “I get it, honest t’god, I do. You’re alleviatin’ their sufferin’. But for the sake of all tha’s good, let the survivors live. Let ‘em heal. They deserve t’live.”

The older man watched her with slow, enigmatic consideration before nodding obliquely. “Fear not, girl,” he rasped softly, “the Provost told me the same. We’re to heal the survivors, but people like this woman are too far gone. You understand, don’t you? I take no joy in knowing we’re killing once innocent people who deserved no such thing.”

She didn’t know if she could really accept it, but in the airs of a heavy plague, she knew better than to question it. What Gehrman told her lifted her spirits somewhat, even though what was occurring made her feel weak and unreal. As if it weren’t really happening. “I know. But we can’t le’ this spread t’ the rest a’the village, either. Let me help. I can...hear the afflicted. I can hear the blood’a Kos. My mum and pop were alrigh’, but those who are still cognizant an’ still afflicted with tha’ blood need t’ be quarantined, righ’? So we can heal ‘em.”

Gehrman smiled grimly, conceding. “Alright, Caryll. You’re a bright girl, with a good heart. I know this village was your home, as we all have one. Find the survivors, whoever they might be. We’ll send off those unharmed, and to the afflicted we’ll take to the Research Hall. You know the one?”

“Yes.”

Brandishing his Burial Blade once more, he nodded. “Do what needs to be done, and so shall we.”

For maybe this was all they could do.

* * *

A week would pass, maybe more. Then, a month. That was all it took for Maria to quit being huntress in an impassioned tirade before Gehrman that seemed so unusual for her character, the man later despairing that she threw her Rakuyo blade, a noble inheritance from Cainhurst, down a well at the Hamlet and had left fitfully. Instead, she took it upon herself to see to the condition of the survivors. In a way, she was still among them, but they stopped seeing her much after that.

That guilt had been too great, Caryll understood. At one point, she’d gotten overwhelmed, too, by Kos and the Orphan whose fate she didn’t know.

From her bedside did her gaze flit towards her desk where several runes carved in a pale, illuminated script shone faintly and coldly even in the candlelight. She couldn’t sleep. Maybe she didn’t want to. Like putting your ear to a conch shell, she could hear the distant roar of the sea from those runes. They beckoned her, called to her.

Reminded her of the sin she’d taken part in.

Of the thousand that had resided in the Fishing Hamlet, only a dozen people, including her parents, had survived. And that wasn’t counting those who had been infected, because she could hardly call that surviving.

Clad in only her heavy woolen nightgown and bloomers she wore beneath that, Caryll slipped on a heavy duster she infrequently wore with her prospecting outfit and mud-stained boots did she sneak from her room that she closed the door of to softly. Normally, Dores would be keeping watch on them and would prevent such nightly incursions from happening, but as this had proven, he hadn’t been keeping well enough of a watch these past several instances. Most notable had been Cainhurst, but neither he nor the Provost had been made aware of it and the hamlet’s had been sanctioned.

Folding her arms to conserve some warmth despite the looming summer, Caryll was surprised to see Laurence of all people seemingly waiting for her. Poring over books under lamplight, Laurence had always been one of Willem’s favorites and was granted permission to study after hours, unlike she, Rom, or Micolash.

“Laurence?” She felt her heart pound in her throat, as she hadn’t seen him in almost a month. Why, no one had really known. “Sorta late, innit? T’ be up, I mean.”

When he sighted her, it felt so strange. She felt like some shy schoolgirl all over again as she came near his side, the older student glancing up at her with a tired smile. Laurence seemed to have aged since she’d seen him last, his tussled blond hair almost a shade darker and bags weighed beneath his eyes. Not that she was sure she looked much better. The hamlet had taken its toll on her, and it still haunted her. Sleep was a blessing, but hard-fought.

“I heard what happened at the hamlet. That was your home, right? I’m sorry, Caryll. I’m glad your parents made it through,” Laurence said as she sat in a wingback chair next to him, the enormous astrolabe looming above their heads reflecting some of the moonlight. It almost felt like it was watching them. “And I heard of what became of Maria. I can’t blame her, after being forced to kill those people… And she’s the strongest of us. I can’t imagine what it might have done to anyone else.”

Caryll nodded numbly. “Is’a real shame, but...I was there, Laurence. These people I’d known since I was girl, they were gone. An’ when Kos washed ashore, what else could we ‘ave done? I’s not like anyone forced ‘em to hunt ‘er down, to bring in those...parasites. Best we dealt with it then an’ there...right?” Chestnut eyes flitted over to the blond, he shaking his head.

“I wish it were so simple, Caryll, but regardless of whether it was right or not, that’s not what really matters. It’s what happened after, what’s going on now, where the real sin lies.” Glancing at Laurence in bemusement, she watched as the man craned to the end table next to him and produced what appeared to be a desiccated skull with the cranium cleanly removed. Inside was bleached clean, and likely sanitized, but by Laurence’s haunted look she knew this was more than just a cadaver’s skull. “Maria brought me this this morning. This is the truth of what’s going on.”

Gingerly did Caryll accept the skull, studying the interior with a puckered brow before it became obvious at what she was looking at. “These markings… D’ya know if they were postmortem or not?” She turned it over in her hands, feeling something ominous radiate from it. From it, she could hear a ghostly, faint whisper of the sea.

“That skull belonged to one of the people of the hamlet. It was done while they were alive, and they were looking for eyes.”

At that revelation, Caryll dropped that skull and it clattered to the floor. Eyes; Willem had mentioned them before many times. During a lecture about how humanity was to ascend, he mentioned lining their brain with eyes to cleanse them of their beastly stupidity. She felt sick knowing what she was looking at, what it meant. Those people hadn’t been saved, but instead delivered into something worse.

“There’s more to it,” Laurence continued darkly, gaze transfixed and haunted. “So much more. You’ll see. And I can show you.”

Wordlessly did she accede and Laurence rose first, offering his hand to take. Were it a gladder time, she might invent some fairy-like reason for this, that maybe they would head towards the Moonside Lake for a midnight walk, or the Lumenflower gardens that were always so beautiful to behold no matter the time of year. Taking his hand, the clamminess that gripped it dashed those ideas away, fanciful though they may be.

Together did he take her towards the central stairway and down it to a door that led into the Lecture Hall. The Lecture Building proper was a stately, dark place where the common body of Byrgenwerth was located, students like them who weren’t among Willem’s chosen and therefore didn’t reside in the College where the observation deck and astrolabe were located. None were milling about presently, as Gehrman and Dores were in charge of campus security and were also sanctioned with ensuring students didn’t wander the grounds after their mandatory curfew. Students like them, however, were given more free rein in comparison.

It wasn’t into the building proper that they continued, but instead towards a freight elevator secreted away that Caryll had never known existed. Though she swore she could hear the sea again, she tried to ignore it as Laurence entered a combination into a hidden console and saw a set of double doors slide open revealing said elevator. Laurence manually opened the caged doors and ushered them both inside, a level pulled to trigger those doors sliding shut in tandem as it lurched before smoothly descending.

The sound of the sea seemed to become ambient, more powerful.

When the doors opened again did a foul stench of sea rot and stale air buffet them both, Caryll gagging on the acrid scent while Laurence seemed strangely unnerved. “This is what Master Willem wouldn’t let us see. The truth behind him sham eldritch truth. The wrongness of it. The falsity,” Laurence said as he led her through, slime clinging to the floors and sticking to their soles, the sounds of sloshing following them. Inside it was like stepping into the belly of a beast, cells lining the long corridor where a principle set of large doors like a vault waited for them.

It was like a prison, and incarcerated inside these cells were those she could recognize by clothing alone, eyes wide as gaslight lamps that lined the hall played light upon people in various stages of transformation, screaming in agony.

“These… They’re the people from th’ hamlet,” Caryll deduced in utter disbelief, grip on Laurence’s hand weakening. Their trek didn’t slow, but it was at the doors at the end of the corridor that he released her hand to swing it open properly, revealing a balcony that spanned over a gaping maw of darkness hung heavily with mist and the roar of the sea that crashed on her ears before fading faintly, seeing a tall, statuesque outline waiting for them.

“Do you see now? What the Provost has done?” Maria addressed them hauntingly as she gestured into the chasm below that revealed only to be a large operating theater, Laurence gazing down and Caryll with him.

On a large metal slab did the body of the Orphan of Kos ooze slime and entrails, disemboweled and surrounded by trays burgeoning with soiled operating instruments. A lone ray of light from above cut through the gloom and illuminated the corpse grotesquely, highlighting its bizarre physiognomy in a sharp contrast of shadow and light. Though the audience stands were empty, it appeared as though they’d been in use barely hours ago. The lingering odor of burning whale oil remained stiffly and musky in the air.

“Caryll, over here,” Laurence indicated with his pointer finger, the runesmith following its direction. There, she saw a pile of severed but mutated human heads, their features still recognizable. But all bearing a distinct commonality: like the skull Laurence had shown her moments before, their skull caps had been removed and hollowed out, barely visible away from the main and morbid exhibit. “This is what he’s done. Taken innocent people and killed them. Do you see it now? What he’s been using us for all along? He wishes to ascend, true, but at the cost of the lives of innocent people. The only one he cares to have ascend intact is himself.”

While Caryll was utterly speechless, Maria spoke over them to him. “Laurence, when you plan on it? On finally divorcing us from the Provost’s treachery?” Her voice was grim, but stern with resolution.

Laurence’s gaze trailed back to the Orphan’s seeming detached and dreamy. “Soon,” he answered succinctly. “It won’t be long now, I promise, Maria.” With that, Maria nodded in affirmation and left them be, disappearing down the corridor like a phantom.

When a pregnant pause settled over them both, Caryll swallowed thickly. “What does she mean, Laurence?”

For a split second, she saw the man she’d fallen for all over again. “He’s right. For all his barbarism and inhumanity, humanity must ascend. It’s our collective destiny,” Laurence began as he turned towards Caryll and took her hands in his. “But the way he’s doing it is wrong. He thinks that by lining our brains with Eyes, by gaining Insight, that we’ll ascend. That may be so, but at what cost? How many people must he use as personal vessels to grow these Eyes he covets so much?” He shook his head sadly at the pile of decapitated heads. “They say the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. That’s where I believe we’ll find our salvation, Caryll. Not in Eyes, or water, but blood. The Holy Medium I conferred to House Cainhurst is only the beginning. You saw what it did for Annalise, didn’t you?”

Caryll nodded. “But, ya understand how science should work an’ all. How d’ya know it won’t effect her negatively, given time?”

Laurence laughed gaily, and it was a dissonant sound in such a ghoulish place. “I don’t think anyone really knows, Caryll. Science, as firmly rooted in reality as it is, is such a finite thing compared to the vast cosmos. Even the medicines we have now are unpredictable. But if no dares to try, we’ll never ascend, much less help our fellow man.” He grew somber again, clasping his hands on the high balustrade. “...I don’t want a repeat of what we’ve seen here tonight. I want to help the city of Yharnam, not hurt them.”

“I want to help ‘em, too, Laurence. I don’t think I can stay ‘ere at Brygenwerth any longer, but...I don’t know where else I can go. This place—it’s become m’life. I don’t think I can return t’ bein’ a civilian and pretend on like none a’this ever happened.” She flinched but relaxed when Laurence brushed a finger beneath her chin, smiling fondly at her despite how hard her heart was pounding.

“Join me, Caryll. You’ll be more than just a Runesmith. With us, you could be so much more.”

Before Caryll could even dream of articulating an answer, Laurence’s eyes sank closed and he angled his head and bequeathed her a slow, chaste kiss square on her lips.

Suddenly, she couldn’t hear the ocean so loudly anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

Warning(s): M, graphic corpse description

* * *

It had taken the whole spring and summer to build, but four years after the great Schism, the Church of the Good Chalice had sprung to life as the epicenter of the community of Old Yharnam. The town was a beautiful, stately place with brick-lain streets and handsome homes in Gothic style while dotted with many parks and squares that made it home. Central Yharnam that hugged the cliff-side and ascended higher was the child of the vain Cainhurst nobles who wished for some sort of escape from what they saw as boorish and proletarian. At its epicenter, the Church itself had since been finished for the past few years months was an edifice of pride, humanism, and the future.

The beginnings of autumn chilled the streets just dark from last night’s rain, vivid and fiery leaves shivering with her in those winds. Tugging her shawl tightly over her shoulders, Caryll felt strange in the layered skirts and womanly boots she felt shoved into, the religious vestments and bonnet over that that were common fashion amid Yharnam’s woman. Gods, what she wouldn’t give for her trousers and loose shirts again. Even if her silhouette was rendered mannish, it was better than feeling as though she was near to tripping at any second.

As she did walk those tree-lined lanes, various people gushed and gossiped amid themselves. And when she was within close proximity, women curtsied and men tilted their top hats or bowler caps. The Runesmith had become something of a legend in recent years. She and the Vicar were the most celebrated of the Church, the two figureheads who were the faces of breaking years of secrecy. Of how they alone seemed the ones who brought the gifts of the gods into the mainstream.

It was completely alienating, Caryll thought with a frown. Even though she was one of its faces, none shined brighter than Vicar Laurence. The handsome blond man with boyish good looks whose piety inspired the masses...including a bevy of women who congregated and competed to get pews closest to the altar in hopes he might bless them with more than salutations of the Great Ones.

The rectory where Laurence’s apartments were was a sequestered wing off the church proper on an overall immaculate and verdant campus. Just a year of healing with the Old Blood had acquired the funds necessary despite neither she nor Laurence being particularly wealthy. And, in the near distance, Gehrman’s workshop beckoned with warmly lit windows atop its tree-crowned hilltop. Just a bridge or two away and part of her wished she wasn’t so busy these days.

“Saint Caryll, please—come in,” a whitewashed, pale slip of a nun greeted approvingly of Caryll, welcoming her into the rectory’s modest foyer. Simple, puritan-style appointments within were well-kept but much more working class. As if she’d walked into the home of a middle-class dairy farmer and not one of the most influential men in Yharnam. “His Holiness just received breakfast on the terrace, if you’d like to join him.”

“I s’pose I could. ‘s he too busy t’day?” Caryll inquired as a page took her shawl from her to hang on a hook in the entryway.

The nun smiled thinly, but not harshly. “I must confess, my lady, that His Holiness is very preoccupied these days. However,” she brightened girlishly, “he’s doing the will of the gods. Oden preserve him and his good works to our lost people.”

Something about the nun’s words rested uneasily on her breast, of what sounded like a genuine faith. Truthfully, she and Laurence had grown distant over the years, even if animosity wasn’t what drove a wedge between them. The fallout of the Schism had been extraordinary and nearly catastrophic, shaking the whole of Yharnam to its foundation. Master Willem had been resigned, true, but even Caryll couldn’t say she’d been unaffected. If anything, she’d withdrawn into herself and had cloistered herself with the Workshop and the work of her Runes while the church rose powerfully around them.

“Alrigh’. Breakfast doesn’t sound ‘alf bad.”

Though most of the rectory was modest, it grew grander and more opulent the closer to Laurence’s quarters they came, practically its own wing. Had she been blindfolded and led to that point before having it yanked off, she could’ve mistaken this particular part as part of Cainhurst Castle. The nun led her to a double set of French doors, within a stately and opulent library, and to a terrace.

Upon a wrought iron table did a lavish spread of breakfast foods sit upon fine china, stamped with gold leaf of what was undoubtedly faraway imports. Laurence himself had a plate generously laden, clad in a black shirt and trousers with penny loafers he often wore under his cassock. Contently savoring his way through deviled eggs, jammed toasts, colorful fruits, breakfast sausages, and hot cakes, one hand balanced a book while the other balanced a fork speared with a few grapes.

Laurence took a furtive look towards them as the nun led Caryll, then hastily uncrossing his legs and sitting upright, nearly upsetting his plate while a fierce blush coated his cheeks in his fluster. “Caryll!” Laurence greeted joyfully. “Please, sit. Thank you, Sister Agatha, but I think I’d like to converse with the saint in peace.”

_Saint_. It sounded sickeningly sweet when he said it.

Gathering her skirts and carefully maneuvering herself into the seat across from him, they were face to face for the first time since they’d kissed in that bizarre experimentation facility nearly five years ago. That reminder summoned an involuntary flush to the nape of her neck she was grateful a summer tan graciously hid.

Laurence looked different, too. Gone was the gaunt-featured, dark-ringed eyes of the younger man she’d known. His hair fell to his nape and framed his face in soft waves of gold, features a bit rounded from what she could see was years of a voracious appetite making up for times of scarcity and sleepless nights at Brygenwerth. He’d filled in with both muscle from participating in the hard labor of building the church and rectory, but lacked definition from the indulging in rich foodstuffs that saw him softened. But, it was a good weight. Lord knows he looked like he actually slept, too.

“Four, five years now? You really are a sight for sore eyes, Caryll,” Laurence said with an intimate fondness as doe eyes became warm pools upon her person, as if he were wheedling beneath the defenses she’d erected. Snapping his gaze to the colorful array of food, he smiled generously. “Breakfast? You have to try the jam tarts, they’re the most delicious thing here.”

Caryll’s eyes lowered and she sighed, Laurence immediately looking concerned. “Maybe some other time, but—’m not here for that, Lau. ‘s this whole saint business, y’know?” While the blond’s lips pursed, regardless did he still sit back receptively, hanging on to every word she said. “We haven’t been talkin’ much, if a’all these past few years. Maybe th’ odd sort’a thing here an’ there, but….s’pose what I’m tryin’ t’say is that I don’t think I can do this whole...church thing. I tried. Honest t’ th’ gods, I did. ‘m not sayin’ what yer doin’ is bad, or anything a’the like, but ‘m not cut out fer this sort’a thing. I joined ya because I thought we were gonna do some real good work around ‘ere. I never asked t’be part of a religion. An’ I don’t want it. ...’m sorry.”

Laurence was taken aback by her admission, swallowing down a mouthful of pastry before placing it back on the china it’d been perched upon, sighing heavily. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Caryll. I wish you would’ve asked why, though. To...avoid all _this_ ,” he gestured vaguely, as if her concerns had taken the seat to her right. “In the beginning, I didn’t intend on starting a religion. But as time went on, it only made sense. The people heralded the Old Blood as a miracle and it formed on its own. I only took those threads and united them into the Church. It’s a necessary evil, but it’s a sound unifier. And the gods they worship are real enough. You of all people know that best.”

“S’pose that makes sense, but what abou’ yer lifestyle? Fer someone who only wanted that, y’sure seemed to ‘ave taken on the role well enough.”

Laurence quirked a brow, but his face was otherwise a pleasantly inscrutable mask. “Starting out as a painfully poor orphan who was raised on the streets and almost lost his appendages to frostbite each winter leaves you wanting. And to never have to know what your own jutting ribs and the gnawing pain of a body eating itself to survive is like ever again.” He interjected with a soft laugh, patting his belly for emphasis. “That and my chef, Tori, makes too much delicious food that I simply can’t say no to.”

“I was talkin’ abou’ the whole Vicar bit, Lau,” Caryll clarified without mirth, gazing traveling subversively to the lush gardens and the lavish library tucked inside.

The blond folded his hands, nodding. “They need someone to lead them. If I don’t, someone corrupt would. Even if I think there’s no crime in living within my means.”

“Though’ things would be different. Tha’ ya wouldn’t succumb t’all this. ‘m not sayin’ givin’ y’self riches an’ whatnot is bad, ‘s just… I’m jus’ wonderin’ if the man I knew is still there, somewhere.”

Laurence nodded obliquely, folding his hands together over his stomach. “I think I know what you mean, Caryll. But, you forget that I still want to help people. That I don’t want to see innocents offered up like stuffed turkeys to be cut open on metal slabs. ...You remember what you saw, don’t you? What we saw? What Master Willem was doing?” He lifted his gaze and smiled with heartrending tenderness. “I might not look as spooked as I used to, but I’m still me. Nothing has changed that, Caryll.”

Conflict broiled in Caryll’s gaze, ranging discreetly at the stalwart guards who manned every entrance of the estate and church grounds, of the nuns who were more like servants, at the luxurious appointments that suited a duke much better than a man of the cloth. Laurence had changed. That much was obvious. Holing herself in the Workshop for so long and being consumed by her discoveries had made her nearly a hermit outside of her interactions with Gehrman, Maria, and the occasional hunter or two.

“Yer still doin’ good, tha’ much is obvious,” Caryll finally conceded as she focused on her hands on her lap, unable to bring herself into some sense of relief. Everything still felt so _off_. “But I mean what I said. ‘m done, Laurence. I don’t want any more’a this saint business. I’ll continue what I do in th’ Workshop, but none else.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Caryll,” Laurence replied after a pregnant pause, a look of palpable disappointment and even loneliness hidden in his eyes that trained instead on the teapot. But, as their proximity wasn’t very far at all, gingerly did the man curl his fingers around Caryll’s hand until he held it, a flicker of a smile evident when she squeezed back. A gentle scrape on iron on the stone indicated him trying to move closer to her, the runesmith’s heart hammering in her chest.

“You don’t have to be a saint. You don’t even have to be the runesmith,” he continued as he drew inexorably closer until his breath practically ghosted her cheek. Laurence’s temple touched hers as he sighed in relief, extricating his hand to wrap his arms around her neck and nuzzle into her pulse, Caryll heating up at their sudden closeness. “I thought about it everyday. I thought, after I set out, that I would be okay sacrificing things like this. I love the people of Yharnam, and I love the congregation. I did it because I wanted to give them hope, to bring joy into their lives and end the suffering I went through as a child. I never want anyone else to suffer the way we had to. But… You can’t confess your fears to the people, can’t bring them onto the roof at night to pour your heart out and contemplate the stars.”

Laurence sighed loudly, feeling it against her nape. “I never stopped thinking about it—the kiss. I did it because I was so full of purpose, because I thought I was so right. That even in all I feel for you, it could be the last human thing I could have before I dedicated myself as a savior and figurehead of the people. I have feelings for you, Caryll. I thought I could give them away and let the love I feel for this city take its place, but...seeing you again… Please, don’t leave me. You don’t have to be a saint or a runesmith, but...please stay with me. I don’t think I could bear it if you did.”

Caryll felt as though she were a pond someone had hurled a stone into, rippling wildly with every word Laurence spoke, each one heavier than the last. Inexorably did Caryll slowly return the embrace, those emotions from before resurgent as they had been when Rom had teased her for it, when Laurence had shown he genuinely cared. “Alrigh’. I won’t,” Caryll murmured back, swallowing thickly.

There was little stopping the vicar as he suddenly emerged from the embrace and captured Caryll’s lips in a passionate lip lock, carding through her curly mane of hair. It was hasty and thoughtless, yet she hadn’t realized how much she truly missed him. How much she returned it just as equivocally, that Laurence was still the man she loved no matter how much they’d changed from their days as students under Master Willem.

Yet, even as they drew apart and Laurence yielded himself to tuck his face into Caryll’s neck once more, she had the same sense of unease that she had years ago.

And those feelings tended to be right.

* * *

It was late when Caryll finally returned to the Workshop on its hill, the Church visible even from afar whose lights twinkled indistinguishably among the heights of Old Yharnam. With the worst of the wind having died down, the moonlight lit the outlines of buildings and still leaves in a frosty white, a portent of the winter to come. She paused there, all before turning to see Gehrman’s hunched and thin frame filling the doorway of the Workshop, leaning heavily on his cane. He’d been expecting her, that much was absolutely certain.

“Come inside, Caryll,” he said gustily before ushering her inside, slamming the door shut behind her. Mystified as to why they were in such a hurry, that came crashing to a halt as she balked at the sight of Maria’s towering form pensively seated before the fire.

“I was wondering when you would return,” Maria greeted somberly as Gehrman stood aside, the pair exchanging looks over Caryll’s shoulders. “How has the vicar been?”

“Well enough,” Caryll answered quickly, brows furrowed in bemusement, arms folded. “Y’mind tellin’ me what’s wrong? Ya looked like you’ve seen a ghost, Maria.” Considering the huntress had retired years ago, Maria being back in the Workshop at all still information she was just processing.

“Show her, Maria,” Gehrman murmured gruffly, Maria’s unreadable face then dipping as her digits groped for a grove in the wood floor. Then finding what she’d sought, she took a corner of one of the Persian rugs and threw it back to pull open a door-sized egress where badly set stairs were rotting into the loam. The stench of wet dirt and mustiness bombarded her nostrils, but it was hardly the worst odor she’d ever encountered.

As Gehrman was too hobbled to make the descent, the man handed off his prized pupil a lantern whose glow filled the darkness with warm gold, Maria silently bid that Caryll follow. The wooden rungs creaked dangerously beneath their weight, but it held together enough that both women could descend without much problem. Below was a cellar carved from stone and the dirt, clay-baked walls lined with wooden shelves of opaque jars filled with caulk, blood, vials, and myriad other things that glanced the golden glow. Yet, that had nothing to do with what was the true focal point.

Sagged against the cellar door was a partially transformed lycan, composed from the waist and up. A lupine visage had its eyes gouged out and bloodied, unnaturally twisted and lengthened appendages limp at its sides but nearly twice as long as a human arm, wickedly muscled and bearing a thick coat of gray fur. Its maw gaped slightly, revealing dangerously sharp fangs. Its chest cavity had been hollowed out, and aside from what leaked into its hide, it appeared largely drained of blood.

But, that wasn’t what drew her notice the most.

Caryll’s features fell slack in surprise and her arms unfolded despite the cold as she could hear its blood, but instead of the roar of an open sea, she could hear boiling and wind through a forest, something similar but totally different.

Maria didn’t wait for permission to explain what it was. “I found him at the tributary of one of the streams that flows into the city’s river. A corpse, yes, but this was deliberate. It was dissected and left there. What’s more, we found this further upstream.” Fishing through her lapel pocket, Maria produced a vial of thick, tar-like sludge that reeked of puss even from where she stood. “It’s blood. Not human, but not the paleblood used in blood ministration. The very same that came from this poor creature.” Caryll thought she saw pity flicker on Maria’s face, but she didn’t pursue it.

“What does this all mean?” Caryll turned the vial in her hands after Maria gave it to her, the sound dim but still audible.

“Upstairs. This is no place for a conversation.”

As they ascended up the stair again and Maria closed the cellar door behind them, Gehrman kicked the rug over it again while directing them to a small table they often took their meals at. The older man sagged with a sigh into his seat before explaining.

“You saw it?” he asked before they nodded in unison. “It’s the church, it’s...Laurence. I found that poor bloke while patrolling the streets. There were a band of men who looked like beggars mutilating that corpse after they’d slaughtered it. I know them: the Harrowed. Hunters of the church who dispose of... _evidence_ that would ruin them.”

Caryll felt herself go cold with dread, blood curdling in her veins, the second Gehrman mentioned Laurence’s name. Maria grimly considered her before placing a reluctant hand in comfort upon her shoulder. “We’ve taken to calling it ‘Ashen Blood,’” Maria continued for him, nodding to the vial that Caryll had placed on the table before her. “It’s a sickness growing progressively worse that only the Old Blood can stand to heal.”

“Ashen Blood… Is that wha’ came from the monster in th’ cellar?” Caryll inquired, still haunted by such a grim sight. “I ‘eard it. I can ‘ear the blood, y’know? Old Blood sounds an awful lot like the roarin’ ocean beatin’ against a shore. This… sounded like boilin’, like anger. Like somethin’ chasin’ prey through the forest.”

“Did you hear it when you visited Laurence?” Gehrman inquired, Caryll shaking her head. “Even as the blood dies, it can still poison. Just as it’s doing to the city, from the river we depend so much upon.”

“So...what yer tellin’ me is tha’ Laurence is usin’ the Ashen Blood t’poison Old Yharnam an’ make ‘em converters for his Church? T’make it legitimate? An’, the Harrowed are coverin’ it up by killin’ those startin’ to turn before people find out?” Her stomach twisted painfully in her gut, nausea rising in waves.

“I’m sorry, Caryll. We wish this weren’t true any more than you,” Gehrman acceded with a sad look in his eyes. It wasn’t with much wonder as to why. Caryll, Laurence, Rom, and Micolash had been like his own children, considering them with a fatherly regard that outpaced even Master Willem’s guiding hand. He wasn’t taking Laurence’s scheming any better than Caryll was.

“But… Why?” Caryll asked aloud brokenly, feeling her throat close. “Why would he do somethin’ so horrible? I saw ‘im today! He… He couldn’t—“

Nothing could stop it as Caryll broke down, overwhelmed by everything. She could literally feel her heart breaking at processing all this, because she trusted Maria and Gehrman implicitly. The Laurence she knew and the schemer committing such atrocities couldn’t possibly be the same person, but they undeniably were. Laurence had always felt strongly as to how he thought humanity should ascend, but never did she think he’d be capable of this. That the man so stricken by Willem’s grotesque experimentation would be able to condone something just as bad if not worse was beyond her.

Maria gathered the runesmith in her arms and held her, while Gehrman watched on blankly. She allowed Caryll to sob as hard as she pleased, soothingly running digits through her wavy hair. So much of her pleaded that this was all just some horrible dream, that she’d fallen asleep fashioning runes together at her workbench as she commonly did. And that Maria was simply waking her up instead of keeping her from falling apart.

Numbly passing her a clean kerchief, Caryll used it to wipe her red, tear-filled eyes after several long minutes of bawling uncontrollably. She felt the lingering sting of those salty tears on her red cheeks, the cloth barely perceptible on her skin before clutching it in a clenched fist as if it would pacify the feeling of emptiness that followed.

“We can’t let this go on,” Gehrman stated quietly after they’d sat in silence for a moment too long, Caryll since withdrawn from Maria’s embrace. The gravity had become immeasurably heavier, the candles and suspended lanterns that lit the Workshop casting their shadows long behind them. The silent understanding between the trio was a grim one.

“How’re we gonna stop it?” Caryll inquired hoarsely, looking to Gehrman. “We gonna expose ‘em?”

“We need more evidence,” Maria meditated, leaning back and folding her arms. “One body isn’t enough to make them see. And, that aside, Yharnam loves Laurence. They would sooner out us as conspirators against him than people to believe. The Old Blood has given them too much to want it taken away, even for this.” That much was true. The people would sooner decry them as heretics, even if Caryll was revered in the Church.

“You love him.” Caryll’s gaze snapped to Gehrman, wide in shock. “And he loves you. You may be able to... _coax_ it from him.”

“Y’mean seduce it from him?” Caryll sputtered with a blush. “Sure, we… I’ve kissed ‘im, yeh, but never tha’ far—“

“Be at his side,” Maria amended instead, “and gain his trust. Get what you need to know from him without him catching on. His feelings may blind him from what we have to do.”

“...Guess we got no choice in the matter, regardless.” Caryll bowed her head, folding her arms beneath her bosom. “I’ll do it. Jus’ tell me what I got t’ be doin’.”

No matter how they went about this, it would hurt in the end, wouldn’t it?


	4. Chapter 4

Warning(s): M, sexual scene

* * *

It had come to her, that night. In the bunker beneath the Workshop that she, Maria, and Gehrman shared, while the other two slept peacefully and deep despite the circumstances they were embroiled in, it did. She stared into the velvety darkness of the room just the same as the dimly lit corridors of Byrgenwerth where she’d knelt by the door of Provost Willem’s office and pressed her ear to it to eavesdrop on the exchange between Laurence and he. Even through the inch-thick door did she hear such an eerily subdued exchange between master and pupil, listening with bated breath.

“I will not forget our adage.”

“We are born of the blood, made men of the blood, undone by the blood.”

“ _Fear the old blood._ ”

The way they’d said it in unison still haunted her, staring in this still, comfortable darkness where she could easily return to sleep, fitful as it was.

There was no way it wasn’t possible, that Laurence hadn’t been the mastermind behind this new brutality. As much as the image of the mutilated man haunted her, what beat harder and hotter in her were the sentiments towards the one believed responsible for this new travesty. Were Caryll a foolish, pining girl, it would’ve been easier to invent an enemy. Someone with fish-dead eyes and only enough room in their heart for greed.

That Laurence would only be a figurehead to give it a face.

That was bullshit, her rational mind scolded her. Of course Laurence was capable of it. As much as Caryll wished she knew him, no one did. Simply because he was tender and kind didn’t mean that he was showing her his true self. Reflecting on his wish and feelings of loneliness, in them she could recognize that not once had they done such a thing, his feelings for her revealed at the cusp of his personal revolution that saw them without contact for almost five years now.

Yet, maybe she invented him as much as he did, her.

Caryll couldn’t say what it was he might idealize in her. But in him? She hungered for that kindness, this stricken belief that he was showing her vulnerabilities that no one else saw. He was her anchor to the idealized past when she, Laurence, Rom, and Micolash had been a friendly quartet that had things in common the other scholars envied. Willem’s personal chosen.

She and Rom still exchanged letters, but nothing could really be said of the others.

Restlessness gripped her and she realized that sleep would be entirely too impossible.

“What are you thinking of doing?” Maria asked suddenly, aloud, startling Caryll.

“Fuckin’ hell, Maria. Ya scared the daylights outta me,” Caryll exhaled with a hand to her breast, stilling her thudding heart. As if the woman had heard its selfish torrent wracking it. Her eyelids shuttered, sighing. “Somethin’ awfully selfish, is what. Reckon you’d kick me arse if ya could ‘ear m’thoughts.”

Maria was silent, invitation to continue.

“In order fer our plan t’work, ‘m thinkin’ maybe I ought’a be some sorta double agent. Somethin’ where both sides of m’ mind would be real ‘appy without makin’ Laurence suspect. Somethin’ that oughtta be kept between the three’a us.” Caryll sighed again, laughing weakly. “Basically, bein’ real sweet on ‘im and chasin’ these old feelin’s of mine t’ throw him off. Gettin’ deep and seein’ what real ugly sorts the Church likely is keepin’ by now.”

“That could work,” Maria conceded neutrally, widening Caryll’s eyes at hearing. “You’ve already rejected the idea of being a fixture in the church, but this would be enough to blind him of your true intent. Yet, I wonder how far you would be willing to go. Will you remain even when the ship floods and he aims to drag you to the depths, too?”

Caryll’s jaw clenched at the realization, gritting her teeth. “...S’pose that’s just the thing, innit? Rejectin’ being his saintly lass means I don’t ‘ave t’be involved in the church, but bein’ at his side as _his_ lass means I can still learn an awful lot more than most blokes. Involved non-involvement, if ya will.” At least, if the walls came tumbling down, she wouldn’t have to fall with Humpty-Dumpty. But, would she really reject if he did drag her down? Her heart was warring over something so obvious it made bile rise in her throat. She should, but could she? Abandon him at the last possible second?

She wasn’t so sure of the answer herself. All Caryll did have faith in was her unwillingness to participate in the same cruelties Laurence had vowed to stop by splintering their ranks into something he saw as beneficial.

“So, what will you do? Surely you don’t intend upon sleeping after telling me this,” Maria said with what sounded like a hint of a smile, but she could never tell with the huntress.

“Guess it’s high time I try an’ do this whole bonny lass business, aye?”

* * *

Maria assured Caryll that she’d inform Gehrman of the developments they’d discuss, and the runesmith trusted her with it. It was late when she made way into the Workshop’s lone, bereft stables to tack up her drowsy horse, but the steed was still amenable as if he sensed his mistress’ urgency. She rode easily through the streets of Old Yharnam, the slumbering city so peaceful despite the weight of the terrible secret she carried in her heart that was slowly killing them, using the steeples of the church like a lode star to guide her towards the city’s heart.

Not wanting to awaken any stable hands, Caryll swiftly untacked her horse and let him into the pastures to graze or sleep, or both, as she made way not towards the rectory, but the inner gardens and terrace that were overlooked by the golden diffusion of light from within, Caryll just barely able to make out the form of Laurence bowed over his desk deep in a work bender.

It made her chest throb affectionately at the sight, swallowing down her trepidation and steeling herself.

Caryll spirited towards the perimeter of the wide doors and windows where he likely wouldn’t see her immediately, heart hammering in her chest as she stole one last glance and damned all her reservations to hell.

It was such a shy knock on the window pane that it was a wonder he’d heard it at all, looking up from his work with a look of caution, like a deer in the headlights. Even from such a bewildered expression was there something raw and vulnerable in his features that made her choke on desire, dipping into view so he could see her frankly, mane of chestnut hair emblematic of who she was.

“Caryll? What you doing? Please, come in, you must be so cold—“ Laurence fussed while quickly ushering her inside and latching the doors shut once she was, facing her with concern in his dark gray eyes. “Did something happen at the Workshop?”

Caryll shook her head, finding the right words even as tears built within her eyes. “I can’t do it. I can’t bloody do it,” the runesmith forced out as her lower lips worried with emotion so genuine it shocked even her. “All these fuckin’ years, Lau, I thought I was damn strong enough t’ soldier on through. But...seein’ ya again, rememberin’ why I fell fer ya in the first place— Gods, I can’t fuckin’ go back to pretendin’ like we don’t exist. That what we ‘ave isn’t there glarin’ at me from across the damn room!”

Laurence became shocked at her admission, responding at first by a tender caress to her cheek that garnered the younger woman’s attention, gaze rising to meet his as the blond sighed softly and touched their brows in a tender gesture. “I’m sorry you had to wrestle with this alone, Caryll. But I think the only thing crueler than seeing you cry is being the reason behind it,” he admitted with a tender touch to her cheek, cupping it. Quietly did he guide her to a love seat situated in a gathering area situated feet from his desk, overshadowed by the enormous bookcases looming over them. Carefully, he guided her to sit as the pair faced each other.

“Am I crazy, Lau? Actin’ like one’a them love-crazed broads from th’ nickelbacks,” she chuckled weakly, sniffing, eyes still burning.

“You’re a lot of things, Caryll, but irrational isn’t one of them. Brilliant and uncommonly inspired, yes,” Laurence replied with a small smile. “...You remember what I said earlier, don’t you?”

Caryll nodded obliquely. “Think so. Th’ bit abou’ you not carin’ about me bein’ a saint or runesmith?”

“Yes, exactly that.” He exhaled quietly, the serenity in his features stilling her. Quietly did he gather Caryll comfortingly in his arms, letting the woman sag into his embrace as she felt a deep relief stir within. Burying her face into his chest, he smelled clean and of baby oil, warm as his heart throbbed soothingly in her ears. “I want you in my life, Caryll. Frankly, I don’t care how, but… I don’t think I could bear the thought of being apart from you again.” He smiled wryly at his own expense. “Repeating myself, ha—but the sentiment remains the same.”

“Guess we’re really not cut out fer this romance nonsense, are we?” Caryll couldn’t help but chuckle as she wiped the corners of her eyes, inhaling Laurence’s comforting scent. “Y’mind if I stay th’ night?” Her brown eyes flickered up to him, feeling him smile.

“I think I’d like that, Caryll.”

* * *

Sharing Laurence’s bed, sleeping in his arms, made it too easy to forget that she shared warmth with the man who could likely be becoming a villain of their story. Guiltily, she’d forgotten her pejorative through the night, sleeping so soundly that she might have been unconscious. For the night, before things fell apart, she wanted to think that maybe it was wrong. That maybe it was just some sect of extremists perpetuating Laurence’s dogma in religious zeal.

But, that would be too easy to think. So long as Laurence didn’t find out, she wasn’t in the wrong for getting closer to him than she ever had before.

Sunlight filtered through the translucent curtains of the several picturesque windows that lined Laurence’s stately bedroom, the four poster bed with its drawn canopy and drapes allowing through a sliver of it to cross their legs beneath the sheets and quilt. Having slept on her side while Laurence molded himself to her silhouette, arm draped over her waist, Caryll was pleasantly surprised by how chaste the entire ordeal was. Part of her had distantly expected some passionate tryst, after all.

“Good morning,” Laurence greeted sleepily as he placed a kiss on Caryll’s shoulder, arm winding earnestly around her waist.

Caryll turned in his embrace to face him, shyly avoiding his gaze. “The vicar caught in bed with a lass… Real scandal we’re cookin’ up here, guv,” the woman teased while Laurence couldn’t help but grin.

“It’s not a scandal if there’s no precedent against the vicar having a lover in the first place,” Laurence replied as he pecked Caryll’s brow fondly, contently exhaling. Yet, his features grew solemn as the smile and levity faded, Caryll’s bronzed features faltering in worry. “Do you remember when we brought the Old Blood to Queen Annalise? The Paleblood?” Caryll nodded carefully. “...Something has happened. Something horrible and we’re going to do something about it.”

The sudden shift in temperament had Caryll shivering imperceptibly, something hollowing in her mind as he slowly and ruefully extricated himself from the embrasure, an exhausted look in his eyes. “You can come if you’d like, Caryll. I think you deserve to know what’s going on. What’s truly going on.”

Sensing that their morning intimacy had lapsed, she nodded. “Righ’. We goin’ right away, Lau?”

“I think we should bathe and change into fresh clothing, and have breakfast, but—yes.”

* * *

What Caryll had anticipated as being only a meeting between Laurence and those informants of these developments evolved into something even more bombastic. While she was gratefully spared being interrogated as to why she was in Laurence’s apartments so early in the morning to begin with, a nun known as Sister Christine had drawn her aside into guest quarters. Something Caryll hadn’t been aware was the fact that the masses held at the Church of the Good Chalice had a strict dress code that was especially enforced upon women, something Caryll resented the moment the Sister informed her she’d have to change into proper dress as many women wore these days.

Fucking Oedon, someone was out for her.

A long skirt with a blouse and corset, stockings and leather boots and twisted updo later, and Caryll felt herself wanting to personally throttle whatever madman had decided that skirts should be the norm for women. Sister Christine crooned over Caryll’s look that the runesmith forced a smile for, distantly wondering if Laurence himself had devised this to tease her.

Considering his sudden shift in demeanor that morning, she somehow doubted that.

Having done her hair up in a bun with the requirement of having to wear a bonnet, the consternation at having to wear such womanly trappings was forgotten the instant she was shepherded outside and led through the front lawn where she was joined by a bevy of other sisters she assumed were novices from a convent on the church campus, feeling like she were part of a very pale flock of hens.

Men who were likely part of the Church Hunters directed them through a side entrance where Caryll already noticed that the women and men were segregated from each other, that hollowing sensation returned when she wondered if Laurence had bowed to the townspeoples’ whims or was of his own doing. It made her disgusted regardless.

Within, it seemed larger than without. Brooding stone composed the constitution of the church, domed ceilings and austere iron candelabras that carried severe bright light from the whale-gas that fueled them. The pews were ramrod straight and wooden, looking uncomfortable to sit upon. The altar itself was plain with no ornamentation, a slab of polished rock chiseled into shape, but nothing more. Caryll repressed the urge to shudder; it was like walking into a tomb.

The enormous glass windows rained in plain, diffuse light that seemed dimmer than the cheerful sunlight outside, mystifying Caryll. Overall, the edifice couldn’t have been more than three stories high, minus the steeple, and seemed fitting for a church just beginning. That didn’t mean she liked it, however.

Given that she was under the impression her decision not to be involved in the church as a saint hadn’t sunk in, Caryll was directed by another nun into the front row to the left where the women were designated to sit apart from their families, if they had them. The mood was as grim as a funeral dirge, and the bells that tolled the faithful to mass certainly sounded like one. Laurence had mentioned that something severe would be revealed here, and for the life of her, she wondered what.

It was then that, without flourish or preempt, Laurence himself stepped on to the altar from an entrance tucked within an alcove to the right, Caryll able to view it from where she was. He wore a plain black cassock and black pellegrina over that, both trimmed with sanguine, the plainest she’d seen him since yesterday’s visit. His lips were set in a hard line and a brutally cold anger smoldered in his gaze, looking like someone else altogether.

“People of Yharnam, I promised you retribution. I promised you answers for the Ashen Blood that has infected our people, and the gods have answered,” Laurence began with booming resonance, unlikely to not have been heard by anyone present. “You came to us seeking knowledge, seeking healing, and it is by the gods’ graces that I do so, so much more. I am a son of Yharnam. I was born here, raised here, and it was by the gods’ providence that I should be delivered unto a path that would see me here today. I was,” he pantomimed picking some invisible object in a flourish, “plucked from the streets of obscurity, delivered from suffering, and given another chance.

“This chance was rare and beautiful, because it was opportunity. I was given a chance, one I didn’t squander. I rose from obscurity by the grace of the gods, and charged with loving and protecting the people of Yharnam. To heal, to guide, to protect.” Despite those earnest words that seemed so tender, a bitter fury replaced the cool anger he came in with. “So, it is for this reason that I must reveal to you our enemies! The ones who have long neglected those they claim to rule, who seek now to poison us for their own banal amusement!” He gestured off-stage, to come anonymous hand off to the side.

In was thrust a weeping woman with spindly limbs and long brown hair that touched her ankles. Clad only in a threadbare shift and barefooted, she was held by the shorter men who had her wrists cuffed and feet bound in severely chafing manacles. Thin and shivering, the brutally pale woman choked on a sob and shivered dismally.

All that rose in her was a fury of her own, clenching her hands into fists until they blanched.

“This woman is a daughter of Cainhurst, our enemies. The family that has long looked down upon us with boastfulness and indifference in within our midst, one of their tainted brood. And now, they seek to poison us!” Laurence’s voice boomed over the congregation as collective gasps and shocked words proliferated before they were cowed into silence by the intensity of Laurence’s gaze. It was like being seared by hellfire. “Master Logarius, if you will.”

The weeping woman was then forced to her knees, a startled cry sounding in the blow to her back that saw her gasping on broken breath. Caryll almost surged from her seat before the Reverend Mother seated next to her considered her oddly, but said nothing.

A deeper chill seemed to descend on the assembly as all hushed in unison while the doors at the very back creaked on their hinges while slowly opened, a looming figure proceeding down the aisle. Caryll’s hackles rose as she turned alongside some others who were too mortified to move, an impossibly tall man towering as his cassock seemed to hang loosely from his frame, bushy black hair trailing past his shoulders with a beard touching his clavicle. His eyes were a hellion fury, and everyone present seemed to hold their breath until he genuflected before the altar in contrite deference of the vicar.

“Vicar Laurence, what has been asked has been done. The finest church hunters have all been assembled, and we await your command,” his voice boomed thunderously, felt to their very bones.

It was then that a halo of heat entered her vision, Caryll startling at the sight before intense, throbbing pain sacked her cognition. With a cry did she throw herself to the flagstones, some Sisters moving to help before Laurence barked, “No! Leave her be!” at anyone who came too close. Blearily did Caryll bite her thumb until it bled, scrawling lines into a pyramid and barely aware of what possessed her hand. When she finished, there was a cavernous buckling and thunder of stone collapsing in a fissure of the same shape, the blood disintegrating into luminous gold while Master Logarius fixated on the rune in a frenzy.

Logarius trod towards her, kneeling before the runesmith and placing a calming hand on her back. “What is this one called, child?” he murmured to Caryll who wheezed for breath, dry heaving before she could speak.

“Radiance,” Caryll rasped automatically, Logarius nodding slowly in understanding as he slowly rose.

“Help her!” he barked towards the sisters who flinched before steadily helping Caryll to her feet, brown eyes lifting blearily towards Laurence who was intensely transfixed on the rune as Logarius had been. “Your Grace, the gods have heard us and their runesmith—nay, their _prophet_ —has decided: the Executioners are to be. It is by the will of the gods that we exist, and that this rune be our oath of covenant. That we should expunge the wretches from their holdfast and deliver justice to the people!”

Laurence then quickly retreated to the altar once more from the nave, hands raised in exaltation. “The criminals have been decided! By the will of Formless Oedon do we have the guilty, the perversity against life! May the will of the gods be done and let our enemies be struck from the annals of history!”

An explosive cheer arose from the congregation as they applauded and exalted the vicar, Caryll seemingly ignored amid the sea of writhing bodies while Laurence basked in their cheer, practically orgasmic in how he soaked it in.

He’d lied. The man she knew wasn’t just dead, but she wondered if he’d existed at all.

* * *

Caryll didn’t return to his apartments after, but she didn’t leave the rectory, either. Given a plain guest room with spartan appointments was she allowed to recover from her ordeal, changed into a plain white shift. The sunlight from before had since disappeared behind broodingly dark clouds, mind at war with itself. As much as she knew this to be a farce, part of her wondered if there wasn’t some validity behind it. Yet, why would even co-conspirators want annihilation? There was no way he could’ve had secret correspondence with the queen. It was enough that it was a declaration of treason against the ruling class, that much was abundantly clear.

Feeling as rested as she could be, Caryll threw off the white sheets and drew a robe over herself, noting that the rectory seemed devoid of activity, likely having something to do with the foundation of the Executioners. She shivered from the sudden drop in temperature, arms folded in some attempt to conserve warmth.

Her destination was easy enough to find, at least.

This time when she came to the library and liberally opened the door, Laurence smiled warmly in greeting. “Caryll? Please, come in. It’s much warmer in here than anywhere else,” he said while slipping off his reading glasses and setting aside his fountain pen. “I have tea and cakes if you want some, too.”

Wordlessly did Caryll close the door behind her, not even answering his question. The air became charged the moment she did, the tension palpable enough to cut with a knife. She proceeded towards him at the desk at his side where she leaned down and captured Laurence’s lips in a kiss he sighed rapturously into. “Clear ya desk,” she ordered softly, without the sting of command. Laurence swallowed thickly and blushed.

“Caryll—“ he broke off when she kissed him again, exhaling shakily. Without another word did he carefully remove as much as he could, setting it all on random shelves until only the leather runner remained.

“Get on it,” she bid again, Laurence swallowing thickly. As he did, even she noted the thickening outline of his manhood straining within his trousers, her attention summoning a deeper flush from the man. And to think, the passionate ferocity from before was truly this. This was Laurence. Not that vitriolic madman. _This_.

“Lay back,” she murmured, but not unkindly as Laurence did just that, radiant blond hair fanning about him like a halo. Shrugging off her robe did only the shift remain as she carefully followed after, mounting atop his groin to begin gyrating against his hips, small sounds of pleasure emitting from the man.

It didn’t take long at all to maneuver him from his trousers, to free his manhood to slowly work inside of her, and she felt oddly like a god. Not for lording over him, but with the lucidity she looked down upon him while he was lost in the throes of ecstasy. His hands held her hips while she rode him, trying and failing to restrain the sounds of bliss that fell from his lips, of her moaned name that was more beautiful than any hymn. It felt raw with him inside of her, but it felt like she was fucking a man and not a figurehead or an effigy that people barely saw as human.

When they climaxed, Caryll lay atop him while Laurence caught his breath and panted softly, embracing her near and mindlessly caressing down her back. It was odd, fucking a holy man. But how she saw it, she wanted him before it was too late. Before he was lost to her.

“I love you, Caryll,” he panted breathlessly, startling the woman.

Unable to find the words to reply, speechlessly did the runesmith lift her gaze, Laurence looking ready to pass out. Gently, inexorably, she kissed him in a way stronger than words, but conveyed a similar message.

_I love you, too._

* * *

Over a month had passed since she’d seen him last, and she knew why. The Executioners now demanded the vicar’s complete attention, and she hadn’t even said good-bye when she’d spirited herself away after they’d had sex. It was too painful to do when she wanted to hoard the memory of the man like gold.

Maria had been stricken since the announcement, not having been so badly off since the events at the Fishing Hamlet years before. She refused to leave the Workshop, spending hours staring listlessly into the fire despite Gehrman’s best attempts to rouse some life back into her. It was only when she overheard Caryll retching in a bed of flowers she’d been cultivating for most of the morning that she turned her head and left her seat. Maria only seemed to go to sleep and to rise the next morning again.

“You’re pregnant,” Maria observed dreamily and detached as she stood in the side doorway that led to a small hill Caryll had been planting flowers on, hurriedly burying the vomit before Gehrman would’ve seen. That caused her to start guiltily, paralyzed. “Is it Laurence’s?”

Caryll nodded tensely, gaze trained ashamed and sidelong. Without a word did Maria sit next to Caryll on the rocky path, gangly limbs unwieldy as she struggled to make herself comfortable. “Real selfish, innit?” Caryll began hoarsely, feeling tears well up within her eyes. “Thought maybe it might’ve been Ashen Blood, but I can ‘ear it real loud an’ clear.” When Maria didn’t interject, tearily did she continue. “I wanted a part of ‘im. Before I lose ‘im, I know it.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

Caryll shook her head. “He’s too bloody busy with ‘is damn genocide t’plan!” She hurled the trowel she’d been using into the dirt where it stuck, gathering her knees to her chest and fighting the urge to cry.

Maria was silent, but drew Caryll close to her side where she rested her head on her friend’s shoulder, letting her eyes sink closed and gain some semblance of sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Warning(s): M, graphic suicide aftermath, brief violent scene

* * *

In what would seem to be the blink of an eye, three years would pass. And with it, the landscape would change. Where Castle Cainhurst was once the zenith of Yharnam, a new district in the city named Cathedral Ward was erected. Blood ministration became more than an insular faith in this time, stoking the flames of industry and becoming a proverbial economy that would see Yharnam richer than it had ever been before. Where Old Yharnam was lapsing into a sickly sector people were leaving day by day, Central Yharnam was rich and opulent with not a day going by without some new structure being built or built upon, a flagrant use of wealth that the city now possessed in droves.

The Vilebloods, as they were now shunned, had been sealed within their castle and persecution against them was swift and severe. Despite the Ashen Blood still being a threat to public safety, the people still managed.

Everyone was, in their own way.

And for Caryll, at least, the arrival of her daughter, Amelia, had brightened her life up in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

“Righ’, tha’s real close, but ya stance is off.” A young man maybe four years her junior glanced at the legendary runesmith as she adjusted his arm, his stance, when it came to shooting his repeater pistol. Twenty-five already. She supposed it wasn’t truly old, but in these times, she was an unmarried old maid with a child out of wedlock. Not that she truly cared, as she had a vocation that went beyond being some old housewife.

The man nodded and fixed his stance, Caryll observing the young hunter carefully before a familiar voice broke through her medley, the happiest voice she’d heard in a long while.

“Caryll, as I live and breathe!” No moments were spared as an albino head of white nearly collided into her, sweet ruby eyes glowing with tenderness. Caryll found herself at a loss for words as a wave of emotion toppled her at seeing her best friend again after so long.

“Rom, what’re ya doin’ here?” Caryll asked while giving her friend a watery smile, walking down one of the garden paths away from the few hunters they were training. “It’s been...gods, seven, eight years now?”

Even after all this time, Rom still looked as lively as ever, if more ethereal than before. Though, it might’ve just been so long that she’d forgotten the incorporeal aura her friend seemed to possess. “Well, I figured, it’s been so long that I missed you quite dearly. Master Willem needed some errands done, so I volunteered. Dores wouldn’t let me hear the end of it, but I had to see you.” Rom’s smile was glowing, but as they walked, Caryll was suddenly stopped by a small form barreling into her to hug around her leg.

“Mummy!” little Amelia squeaked, sucking on one of her thumbs and gazing at both women imploringly.

Rom’s smile changed from friendly to maternal as she genuflected before the toddler who shyly hid behind Caryll, the woman chuckling softly. But the longer Rom looked, the more her expression changed from wonderment to that of sad epiphany. It was obvious this was she and Laurence’s daughter if you knew the pair well enough. Though she possessed Caryll’s features—a button nose, almond-shaped eyes, the beginnings of rounded cheekbones, a curly mane of hair, and heart-shaped face—she had Laurence’s sandy blond hair, tawny pale complexion, and gray eyes.

“She’s beautiful, Caryll. ...Does Laurence know? Does she know who her father is?” Rom inquired softly as she gently held out her hand for the toddler to take, the little girl gripping two of Rom’s fingers shyly.

“I think she’s too young t’ really understand, but she knows her da’s a real important bloke. Think that’s enough. As fer tha’… No. Reckon if it were years ago, I’d ‘ave told ‘im, but th’ way he’s spiralin’ into depravity makes me think he’ll never be fit to know, let alone be her da fer real.” Caryll absently stroked through Amelia’s hair, the girl sucking her thumb drowsily. It was a sad fate, wasn’t it? That their little girl could never know as long as Laurence continued being what he was.

“Oh, Laurence… What in gods’ name happened to you?” Rom lamented softly, sighing. “Why don’t we go inside, Amelia, Caryll? You must be chilly.” That much was for certain. Barren trees crackled their branches as a wind picked up for emphasis, little Amelia hugging herself and bouncing emphatically for both of them to return to the Workshop. Late autumn would soon lapse into winter and she could feel the proximity of a blizzard gripping the city with each passing day.

Inside the Workshop was cozy and warm, Gehrman himself fast asleep in an easy chair tucked into the corner where the library was. Used workbenches still carried the scents of oils and metals, Caryll feeling immediately at home in the place where she’d been living for the past eight years or so.

“How cozy. How many hunters are usually trained here, Caryll?” Rom inquired as she peered at the various workbenches and tools, at the weapons festooning the walls above the mantle. She seemed too cautious to touch anything, which was likely a wise idea. Amelia, meanwhile, was content to toddle back to the sheaf of paper she was annihilating with a piece of charcoal.

“Mm, usually no more than half a dozen. Sort’a go on a year-long trainin’ stint ‘fore they graduate on t’ the huntin’ lodges in th’ city proper. Got only two this year ‘cause so many’a them are joinin’ the Church Hunters.” Funny how they were technically an arm of the church, yet were nothing more than church mice begging for scraps. Even with her based here, many were either too intimidated at the idea of training alongside her, or they were more interested in the luxury and glory the Church was able to afford. Usually, it was the latter. “I’s not much, but we do what we can.”

“Well, I suppose for little Amelia’s sake, it’s a good deal, I imagine. And you always did prefer your privacy, Caryll,” Rom couldn’t help but tease as Caryll smirked wryly at that. “I find it would be rather odd to see you in one of those church hunter sets. They all look like reapers or ghosts. I can’t decide which is more frightening.” Rom made a face, then seating herself on the floor to watch Amelia scribble.

“Nah, knowin’ ‘em, if they had their way I’d be locked in some damn wing all t’ m’self and made to make runes all day an’ night. Rubbish like that.” Sinking down to cross her legs, she craned over a bit to ghost a kiss on Amelia’s brow as the child giggled shyly.

Rom looked distant and contemplative, gaze traveling to the hearth where a fire crackled warmly and cast a golden glow throughout. “Things aren’t the same. I haven’t heard from Micolash, but I do know what he’s been doing. Have you heard of the School of Mensis?” When Caryll gave her a confused look, Rom continued, “It’s splinter group that Micolash founded on par with Laurence. They’ve been working closely with the Healing Church. You didn’t think they could do all that on their own, did you?”

Though Caryll was struck by the revelation, it somehow didn’t surprise her. There was an element of the Healing Church’s fanaticism that echoed Micolash’s own, including his past dalliances with his infatuation with Rom. It seemed so small in comparison, but they seemed to be connecting like never before. “Wonder what ol’ Mico is doin’ fer them. Can’t be anythin’ good, I wager.”

“I think you might be right there,” Rom replied grimly, eyes closing.

Yet, in the midst of their conversation, there was a commotion outside as the young hunters doing their exercises halted and were audibly marveling at something Caryll could barely hear through the door. She could hear Gehrman tiredly address whoever was there, feeling her heart throb into her throat when she realized who it likely was. “Rom, keep an eye on ‘er, will ya? Amelia, be a good lass fer Auntie Rom, yeah?” Rom nodded solemnly while Caryll slipped out through the front.

It was strange seeing Laurence again, even though he wasn’t alone. A detail of guards in their white church hunter sets sat astride proud, tall chargers that pawed in the gravel while Laurence himself was just dismounting a dish-faced black gelding, back to Caryll and unaware she’d joined them.

“How good it is to see you, Your Holiness,” Gehrman managed through his fatigue, Caryll bitterly remembering how Gehrman had all but bought the idea that the Vilebloods were responsible for the Ashen Blood and had summarily excused the man who was too much of a dear friend not to. He smiled invitingly while Caryll’s gaze was hard and flinty, arms folded.

Just as Laurence turned to return the greeting, his eyes landed on Caryll and his smile fell immediately. Though he replaced the initial shock with one of severity, even she couldn’t mistake the rumblings of longing churning like a storm. The last time they’d seen each other, his cock had been sheathed deep inside of her, after all. That, and the mutual admission of their feelings despite the betrayal that would culminate.

“Caryll,” Laurence addressed, but he struggled to keep his tone detached and professional. Clad in a black frock coat, beige trousers, leather gloves, and expensive suit beneath, wealth oozed off him in waves. Even the tie holding his lengthy, shoulder-length gold locks in place seemed some expensive material. Yet, it was those doe, gray eyes that killed what was supposed to be a hated person for her. The one underhandedly poisoning the entire city and toppling its rightful rulers all for his own gain.

“Come t’ check on ya flock a’ hens?” Caryll inquired bitingly of the man, folding her arms as if daring him to make a move.

“I’ve come to the understanding that you had a daughter in the past few years,” he began, beginning to remove his gloves. “ _Our_ daughter.” That alone gained scandalized gasps from the few hunters standing at a distance, turning to each other to gossip while switching back to the unfolding scene.

“Kid ya weren’t even aware of ‘til now, I reckon? Jus’ ‘cause ya contributed to ‘er doesn’t mean she’s ya kid,” Caryll rebutted with a raised brow, unflinching.

Realizing that they were staring, Laurence huffed tensely. “Might I have a word in private? _Civilly_?” he ground out as those by him understood and wheeled their horses a ways away, the eavesdropping hunters scurrying back inside while Gehrman politely hobbled away, grabbing a rake and clearing away fallen leaves well from earshot.

“So, wha’ bullshit ya gonna spout this time t’ convince me this ain’t some loony gig’a yours? Go on, guv, regale me arse.”

It was then that Laurence’s defenses crumbled and she felt a chip in her armor. But even so, she remembered she was a mother now, not just a lovestruck loon. She had her daughter to think about.

“Why did you do it, Caryll? Why did you just…leave me like that? You never said anything, and now I’m just discovering that I have a _daughter_ ,” Laurence began miserably as he wrung his hands together, a twinge of guilt cutting through her walls. But, gods, she couldn’t relent! Not even for him.

“Ya go aroun’ poisonin’ the whole damn town an’ I’m s’posed ta feel sorry for ya? Laurence—I though’ maybe we were wrong. Tha’ it was all jus’ some bloke blamin’ the church fer it. Tha’ I could find an’ see the truth, but—ya went an’ killed all’a it. Blamin’ the nobility when it was you who gave ‘em that damn blood in the firs’ place!” Caryll fumed at him, baring her teeth in a snarl.

“That wasn’t me,” Laurence protested pitifully, looking pained. “When we first discovered the Ashen Blood, our experiments with the Old Blood proved it could be neutralized. We only wanted to expose a controlled population to it, heal them, and let nature take its course and for word to spread. We never… Caryll, you know me. I’d never dream of intentionally harming people.”

“Righ’,” Caryll replied flatly, dubiously. “An’ how long were those experiments for, Lau? Did ya wait aroun’ long enough t’ make sure they were fully healed?” The blond’s guilty silence was an answer enough. “Though’ as much. Ya took the damn leap ‘fore lookin’ and fucked up an entire town ‘cause ‘a it. Bet there’s a good number a’ folks who’d love t’hear tha’ their friends an’ family died ‘cause a’ some “ _innocent mistake_ ,” eh, Lau?”

It seemed as though her words had been eviscerating as she saw tears build within Laurence’s eyes, demolishing the proud, astute man who’d ridden through just moments ago and had commanded every eye upon him. Caryll wasn’t proud of doing this. She wasn’t someone who liked cutting someone down and bringing them to their knees, but in this case, it had to be done. If no one was going to hold him accountable, then she had to. Even if it killed her inside.

His legs buckled beneath him all at once, crumpling to the ground and covering his face with a hand. Laurence’s shoulders shook with sobs and every instinct in her that loved him demanded to hold him, to reassure him somehow. But rationale won. This was guilt. It was as great an admission as any, and all she needed to know not to trust him straight away. Even if the sound of his weeping was agony, remembering what he’d incurred was worse.

“Tell me what I have to do,” Laurence murmured almost inaudibly before peering imploringly at her, hand lowering. He scrubbed his tears away, minuscule as they seemed. “Caryll, _please_.”

Caryll looked away from him and out to the changing horizon of Yharnam adorned with the rising heights of myriad buildings, the city changing at a breakneck pace despite all the suffering that was evolving along with it. “Y’want t’ see yer daughter? Y’want me bein’ yer bonny lass? Ya had th’ power t’ get us into this mess, so ya ‘ave the ability t’ get us out. Do somethin’ abou’ the damn scourge, and rescind your stance on th’ Vilebloods. Then, maybe I’ll let ya see yer daughter, let alone act as ‘er da.”

Laurence numbly rose to his feet, inexorably drawn to Caryll’s side, seeing what she did. She could almost physically feel his presence brush against hers, feeling that gravitational pull of wanting to tuck herself into his side and be held by him. To be the lovers few people knew them to be. Maybe, in a darker facet of herself, blissfully steer Yharnam into ruin when few people had given her and the Hamlet dwellers a damn in the first place.

“Caryll, look: do you see that clocktower?” he indicated with his pointer finger, Caryll following its trail. Above even the spires of the Cathedral, she could see it. “That’s the Astral Clocktower. Below it is the Research Hall where we conduct our studies with transcendence and blood healing. It and the Clinic in the town proper is where we heal people. Especially those who were afflicted by the disaster at the hamlet.”

This caused Caryll’s gaze to snap towards Laurence in surprise, feeling some fluttering hope. So, he was doing something to stop it? There was some relief, but she was still suspicious of it. “Alrigh’, an’ the Vilebloods?”

Laurence grew quiet. “Caryll, them being branded as heretics was not an arbitrary decision to alienate them, or to be used as a scapegoat for the Ashen Blood. We discovered something disturbing at the castle: while we expected losses to be incurred among the hunters, the Vilebloods have been deliberately killing hunters and bringing blood dregs for the queen. Especially church hunters,” the blond said grimly as he folded his arms. “When we went to her years ago to try the healing blood, to do some good work, that’s all I intended. But, that queen is dead, Caryll. Now she’s obsessed with somehow conceiving an heir through those blood dregs. She and her people are too dangerous to let free. To quarantine them from the rest of society is the best we can do.”

It sounded like bullshit, somewhat. Caryll’s lips pursed and she stood thoughtfully for a minute while Laurence waited for judgment. As far as she could see, miracles didn’t happen overnight, and as long as he recognized his wrongs and was doing something about it, it was a start. Whether it was satisfactory enough, it was too early to say. “Alrigh’, follow me.” Ascending the stair into the Workshop proper, stepping through the threshold, they were greeted by the sight of Rom playing with Amelia who was babbling along to a song the woman was singing.

“Hello, Laurence,” Rom greeted cordially but distantly, inclining her head. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

“Hello, Rom. And yes, it has,” Laurence said back with a flicker of a smile, looking nostalgic. “How are things at Byrgenwerth?”

“Well enough, I suppose. We’re managing,” Rom replied enigmatically, then turning fondly to Amelia. “Amelia, there’s someone here who wants to meet you. Won’t you say hello?”

Little Amelia stopped singing and peered at Laurence speculatively, the man’s eyes shining the moment he laid eyes on her. Caryll went over to scoop the little girl up in her arms, Amelia’s wide gray eyes considering Laurence intently. “Amelia, this is yer da. Won’t ya say ‘ello?” She bounced the girl some in her arms, Laurence tense with anticipation and adoration.

“Dada?” the girl queried of the man, the blond fighting back tears as he smiled at her. “Da! Mama, dada!” She made grabby hands at him and Laurence readily accepted the girl when Caryll gently transferred her to him, kissing her cheek the moment she was within his arms.

“Hello, love,” Laurence greeted with thickness in his voice, burbling with emotion. “Caryll, she’s beautiful. She looks like us. Amelia… What a perfect name.”

Even she couldn’t help it any longer as Caryll carefully slotted herself in Laurence’s side who accepted her with an embrace, pelting her brow and cheeks with kisses as the woman embraced her love and their daughter. Amelia attempted to embrace them both in return, but her efforts were slightly strained. Even Rom looked on with a shine in her eyes, wiping away a tear from the corner.

“This is ya future, Lau. We ‘ave to make it real good fer ‘er. We got’a do all that we can,” Caryll murmured as their cheeks touched, Laurence burying his face in her mane of hair. “Can ya promise tha’ fer yer daughter, at least?”

“Yes. By the gods, yes,” his voice cracked as his embrasure tightened some, wanting for all the world that it wouldn’t end.

* * *

A few months passed, and winter came. A soft blanket of wintry frost and feathery snow covered every bit of surface that could be afforded, the plants all since dried and dead for the season. In spite of it, the nights came beautifully this time of year, the moonlight coating the world in soft, luminous blues of varying shades that made it impossible not to gander and gaze upon for hours at a time, almost.

Amelia was fast asleep, bunking with the one other woman trainee of the Workshop who had lost her sister in the past year to the Ashen Blood and doted on Amelia as if she were her own. That left Caryll to her own devices that evening, knowing what needed to be done.

Curfews had been enforced for the past few years, everyone herded into their homes or to public safe houses that existed every few blocks run by clergymen and women who provided safe haven until the morn. Though she officially existed as a runesmith, as an unseen patron of the city and the hunt, she was still a Workshop hunter. Having trained them for years, her ability was on par or greater than some of the Church’s own.

Why, from the Hunter workshop could she spy the Healing Church Workshop, a stately tower adjoined to the Grand Cathedral in the Upper Ward. The lights were lit there, and it was obvious by such activity that the hunters were raring for a night on the hunt. Wearing what they teasingly referred to as the ‘Old Hunter Set’, hers was sans the enormous floppy hat that obscured more than aided, hers a tricorner. Hair bound into a tight bun and lower face masked, she wore welder’s goggles to protect her eyes. Her Beast Cutter had been sharpened in lieu of this excursion, not even Gehrman truly aware of what she intended on doing.

Ensuring that she’d locked the door tightly, and that her Saw Hunter badge was visible that authorized her being out past curfew, she made way from Cathedral Ward and into the streets proper of Old Yharnam that was a bit of a walk. The high spires of the residential apartments congregated together bled into the higher class communes where little greenery pierced through. Clad in such dark raiment, she would surely stand out amid the Holy Blades, Church Hunters, and those affiliated with the church and their holy vows.

Except, she wasn’t out to hunt beasts.

It had been too long since Maria had gone on to join this so-called Research Hall. Though Laurence claimed it was all in pursuit of a cure, somehow she seriously doubted that. By the gods, she had to protect her daughter from the monster Laurence seemed to be becoming. Even though his apologies and petitions from before had been so utterly sincere, of how much he wanted to be a whole family, at the end of a day her feelings as a mother outweighed even that of her love for Laurence.

And in disguise like this, though she stood out from the snow-covered streets, Caryll still felt as though she possessed a keen advantage. Above all else, she certainly had the reputation enough to leverage.

Her footfalls sunk softly into the snowdrifts and were all the more glad that her soles gripped the ground well enough and without significant struggle. Yet, Caryll froze when she swore she felt another presence looming over her, the vibrato of a guttural growl rumbling down her spine when she realized what was behind her. Freezing—though not out of fear—Caryll waited until whatever lupine thing was behind her sniffed within her aura before spryly engaging her Beast Cutter with a loud clangor and bringing its segmented parts into a cruel whiplash of thick iron teeth saw it satisfyingly connect with flesh and the lycan yelped as its chest was slashed deeply.

Turning to face her opponent properly, an open mind was finally able to hear the feral song of the beast’s blood, irregular and boiling that throbbed in her skull like blood, following it better than her other senses could. The beast attempted to deliver a punishing blow to her person before acting quickly and arcing the weapon again in a feint that cleaved into its skull and lodged there.

With a lame and languishing groan did the lycan stagger and collapse to the ground, dead before it hit. A spray of blood splattered red on her raiment but was ultimately grateful that this would be the climax of action that night.

The raids conducted were shams, usually. When the scourge seemed to barely rear its head did the hunters invade those homes of the offenders, kill the sick, and sometimes the whole family if there was enough suspicion by association of their sickness. Even if there was no real way of telling, it was all done in the name of a monstrous quarantine and the means of death was usually lied about in the fatality reports the next morning. That it was the entire family was infected alongside the one known to be, seen as nothing more than a slight exaggeration no one questioned.

Staring down at the corpse, she swore she could hear the sounds of butchery in the distance of one such unfortunate family. Caryll shuddered, but hardly from the cold. And to think Laurence justified this monstrosity. Looking up to the Astral Clocktower in the distance that announced the Research Hall, she didn’t have long to go.

* * *

Silhouetted grimly against the Yharnam sky, the Astral Clocktower seemed some lofty grace that vanished the moment Caryll made way to the Research Hall entrance, stopped by a Holy Blade guardsman who queried why she was there.

“Excuse me, miss, but you’re a huntress, aren’t you? I’m afraid I can’t let you in during the hunt. Come back in the morning, please,” the man stated, but not unkindly. It wasn’t unusual for hunters to want to see that their family members were safe. When Caryll tugged down her cowl, the man’s demeanor changed immediately. “Lady Caryll! My apologies. Please, this way.”

“Thank you,” Caryll replied, though she was otherwise at a loss for words. Something stunk and she didn’t want suspicion to show too much upon her features.

Ushered inside, rows of stately hospital beds with drawn curtains lined the dark vicinity, nurses in white sets seated at patient’s bedsides as they closely monitored each one, silently inclining their heads in acknowledgment of her but none else as those present were sleeping fitfully. Caryll willed herself not to stare despite hearing the same bestial howling in their blood as she had the beast.

These patients didn’t have long to stay sane.

What truly caught her eye was the gaudy lift she’d heard mention of at the ground floor, but words failed to capture what the moonlit edifice truly looked like to the naked eye: loomed over by three white-clad statues in differing poses, Caryll felt a pang in her breast at one who wore a headdress immediately reminiscent of the provost. To the surgery table did Caryll grimace at the brass contraption that looked like a ghoulishly realistic composite of a badly decomposed corpse. Part of her distantly wondered if it hadn’t been cast from a real body. The odious consideration made her shiver, but she invoked it and held fast as it creaked and rumbled its ascent.

The Research Hall proper could better be considered a tomb than a hospital. Even though the Clinic her mother, Kesia, worked at was spooky at times, it hardly held a candle to this. The second she stepped off the lift did small woman with pale, delicate features and blonde hair rush to meet her. By the looks of her trappings, she seemed to be a nurse like those downstairs.

“Oh, Lady Caryll, it’s such a delight and honor to meet you! I wish we might have met in better circumstances, though… My name is Adeline. I was named Saint Adeline once, but that was some time ago. Now I work here, with the patients.”

Though she gushed so fondly, Caryll’s stomach turned at the sudden roar of the sea that swelled to meet her in waves, stemming immediately from the woman before her. It was a sound she hadn’t heard in years; not since the Hamlet had been wiped out by the church. By her friends who said they hadn’t a choice. She felt nauseous, but no immediate want to retch.

“Ah, thank ye. ‘s real nice t’ meet ya, Adeline. I… I have t’ ask, but where’s Maria? Figured it’s been a real long while since I’ve seen ‘er. Though’ she wouldn’t mind th’ visit since we’re the night owl sorts anyhow,” Caryll asked with a wry and short smile, the blonde appearing contemplative.

Smiling suddenly, she tapped Caryll’s forearm. “I know just where she is. Why don’t I take you to her? She doesn’t like being interrupted very much, but she cares for us and would be happy to see a friend, I think.”

Caryll drew back in understanding. “Wai’. Ya mean, yer not one’a the nurses ‘ere?”

Adeline giggled oddly. “Of course not! Aside from Lady Maria and the doctors who come here during the daytime, this is a severe quarantine zone where only the most afflicted are cared for. I help out however I can, but… I’m afraid I’m quite sick. I simply don’t look it, yet.”

While Adeline’s revelation weighed oddly on Caryll, nothing more was said as the woman was fine with companionable silence as they mounted the first stair and ascended to the rafters themselves where it was a precarious balancing act to reach the clock tower proper, Adeline cheerily departing and setting back down as a corona of gold light held within a gilt lantern.

A feeling of dread clawed into her breast the moment Adeline was nothing but a haunting dissonance of footfalls down the stairs, throbbing with her heavy heartbeat. The rafters creaked with each step as she advanced towards the clock room proper, standing before a grand set of doors before slowly opening one to reveal a sight she never wished she’d seen.

Her stomach dropped the moment she smelled the overwhelming stench of blood.

Maria’s throat had been slashed and her wrists as well, dying the whiter raiment of her outfit a dark scarlet. Though Caryll froze for a long moment, she choked on a sob as she bolted towards her friend so deathly pale.

“Maria!” Caryll caterwauled as she halted sharply and nearly collided into Maria’s prone, seated form. “Maria, by th’ gods, answer me!” She shook the blonde’s shoulders, rife with sobs. “Maria!”

Burbling coughs uttered from the slit in Maria’s throat, pink bubbles sputtering from the orifice. “Caryll…” she rasped weakly, blearily lifted a hand as an arm trembled to embrace Caryll near, the runesmith freezing as she held the fellow huntress close to her. “I’m…sorry. I can’t… I couldn’t…” Yet, the world seemed to numb into silence as she barely got out: “Curse the fiends, their children too… Their children, forever true…”

It was then a last breath left her, Maria’s arm went slack, and the light left her eyes as she slumped lifelessly against Caryll.

For several long moments of shock, the runesmith quaked miserably that rattled her bones all before the coldness dropped into a hot bath of grief as she sobbed into Maria’s shoulder. Misty eyes lifted and she spied a smashed picture in its frame, distantly realizing the shouts of nurses and orderlies as they’d heard her cries. Swiftly did she pocket the frame, unable to move otherwise and kneeling in the rusty-red pool of Maria’s profuse bleeding soaking her to the bone.

Caryll barely processed as shouting men dashed towards her and she swore she saw Gehrman among them as the older hunter blanched so pale he looked like a ghost within seconds of seeing her. Carefully was Caryll extricated from Maria’s rapidly cooling body, gently guided away while Gehrman nearly threw himself on Maria yet manfully stopped by the burly orderlies shouting at him to calm down while he howled his grief.

The runesmith watched, dissociated from reality, as people clamored in with concerned patients watching on as the woman they loved was lifelessly removed from a place beloved by her. Maria’s body was loaded on a stretcher and draped with a sheet that stained quickly, removed from the room with only her bloody chair and the pool of blood left in its wake, keening when they realized Maria was dead.

A nurse kept a steadying hand on Caryll’s shoulder while she blankly watched on, the picture contained in her lapel pocket weighing significantly.

It felt like some immense secret was contained within it.


End file.
